THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS  AND  SKETCHES. 


CINCINNATI : 

PRIMED   BY  B.  FRANKLAND,  127  MAIN   STREET. 


POEMS  AND  SKETCHES, 


ELEANOR   DUCKWORTH, 


OF    EDINBURGH,    SCOTLAND, 


MILLY     WENTWORTH, 


OF    NEW    ORLEANS. 


JU  LY. 

PUBLISHED    QUARTERLY, 


CINCINNATI: 

WENTWOBTH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 
MDCCCLVII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  by  WENTWOETH  &  Co.,  in  the 
Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  Ohio,  in  the  year  1857. 


I 


PREFACE vil 

Fear  Him,      ,     9 

"Let's  go  Ont  and  Walk  Together,"        13 

Sky  Watchers 16 

Why  Not?    19 

The  Born-Poet,    22 

My  Mission,          26 

My  Western  Home,    28 

Live  it  Down 30 

My  Lost  Sister,   32 

Hope  out  of  Sorrow,         34 

A  Memory,    36 

Leaving  Home,     39 

"  Dimly  through  the  Mist  of  Years,"        42 

Our  Little  Lilly's  Death,        44 

Lament  of  the  Bereaved,        46 

Eloquence,     48 

Misericordia,         60 

A  Fragment 62 

Immoral   Poetry,        53 

The  Dream  of  Yesterday,        '. 57 


762994 


CONTENTS. 


Beminiscences,     80 

Thou  art  Beloved,      63 

There  is  no  Sin  in  Loving  Thee 66 

Prayer  of  the  Neglected  Wife,       69 

To  a  Star-Dreamer,    „ 72 

Sad  Memories,      76 

Thou  hast  Fled,  Bright  and  Glorious  Vision,        78 

The  Lover  to  his  Lady,          80 

A  Sketch  from  Keal  Life,       82 

Woman's  Bights 86 

A  Mother's  Tears 90 

Harmless  Gossip,        92 

American  Young  Ladies,        94 

The  Christian  Merchant,        98 

Immortality 101 

Stanzas „    103 


THE  AUTHORESS  has  been  encouraged  to  this  undertaking  by 
the  solicitation  of  many  friends,  who  have  expressed  a  desire 
that  some  of  her  poems  which  have  appeared  in  the  columns  of 
the  EDINBURGH  WAVERLEY  JOURNAL,  should  be  published  in  s 
more  collected  form.  The  following  pages  comprise,  therefore,  a 
few  stray  waifs  which  have  been  for  some  time  floating  upon 
the  sea  of  periodical  literature.  They  are  now  for  the  first  time 
collected  and  given  to  the  American  public,  with  many  others 
which  have  never  before  appeared  in  print. 

This  work  was  originally  published  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland, 
and  its  success  throughout  Great  Britain  has  been  unprecedented. 
We  anticipated  issuing  the  present  number  in  June,  but  unfore 
seen  events  have  delayed  its  publication  for  one  month.  We 
trust,  however,  it  will  be  none  the  less  acceptable.  To  our 
friends  throughout  the  entire  Union,  for  their  liberal  encourage 
ment,  we  are  truly  grateful. 

MlLI,T    W*NTWOBTH. 


IE? 
I  ear 


"But  I  will  forewarn  you  whom  ye  shall  fear;  Fear  Him, 
which,  after  He  hath  killed,  hath  power  to  cast  into  hell;  yea, 
I  say  unto  you,  fear  Him." — LUKE  xii.  5. 


I. 

FEAR  HIM,  fair  children !  fear  the  great  All-Seeing, 

Ere  your  young  souls  can  fully  comprehend, 
Their  strange  connection  with  that  wondrous  Being 

Who  is  at  once  Creator,  Father,  FRIEND  ! 
He  speaks  to  you  ere  ye  have  ceased  to  wonder 

At  the  broad  earth,  and  bright,  o'er-arching  sky, 
While  yet  ye  tremble  at  the  loud-voiced  thunder, 

And  the  bright  lightning  as  it  flashes  by. 
Through  these  He  bids  you  fear  Him,  yet  confiding 

In  His  deep  love,  to  do  His  holy  will, 
And  wheresoe'er  His  tender  hand  is  guiding, 

With  childlike  confidence  to  follow  still; 


10  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 

And  if  your  hearts,  that  high  command  obeying, 

Devote  to  Him  life's  first,  fresh,  stainless  hours, 
So  shall  the  pathways  where  your  feet  are  straying, 

Be  fragrant  with  the  breath  of  sweetest  flowers. 
So  shall  your  souls  be  spared  the  touch  of  sorrow, 

The  bitter  chastenings  of  affliction's  rod, 
If  ye  from  gentler  things  will  learn  to  borrow 

Your  lesson  of  obedience  to  God. 

II. 

Fear  Him,  0  youth !  for  ye  have  many  teachings 

That  in  your  earlier  guidance  had  no  part, 
Ye  hear  far  less  of  Nature's  silent  preachings  — 

Far  more  the  whisperings  of  the  wayward  heart. 
Life's  shallow  stream  is  now  a  rapid  river, 

Which  in  its  turn  shall  soon  become  a  sea  — 
For  its  great  circle  deepens,  broadens  ever, 

And  knows  no  limit  save  eternity. 
Fear  Him!  not  blindly,  slavishly,  but  rather 

With  mingled  love,  and  tenderness,  and  awe, 
As  ye  would  fear  the  kindest  earthly  father, 

And  dread  to  disobey  his  slightest  law. 
Fear  Him  !  but  let  your  holy  fear  be  spoken 

In  works  of  gentleness,  and  words  of  love  — 
In  striving  e're  to  keep  the  link  unbroken 

That  binds  your  spirit  to  the  realms  above. 
So  shall  His  kind,  protecting  presence  guide  you 

Through  light  and  joy — through  darkness  and  dismay, 
And  whatsoever  earthly  ills  betide  you, 

His  loving  smile  shall  light  you  on  your  way. 


FEAR     HIM.  11 


III. 

Fear  Him !  0  Ye,  upon  whose  life-trees  blushing, 

Ripen  the  fruitage  of  your  Autumn  days — 
But  in  whose  path  Fate's  cruel  hand  is  crushing 

Flowers,  that  in  Spring  unfolded  to  your  gaze. 
Fear  Him!  and  use  the  talents  he  has  given, 

Truth's  golden  sunlight  o'er  the  world  to  spread ; 
To  hearts  despairing  give  the  hope  of  Heaven — 

For  souls  that  famish,  scatter  living  bread. 
Fear  Him  !  and  fling  upon  His  holy  altar 

The  highest  aims,  the  dearest  hopes  of  life, 
And  then,  re-nerved  with  faith  that  cannot  falter, 

Go  forth  to  mingle  in  the  great  world's  strife ; — 
Go  forth  to  aid  your  weaker  friends  and  brothers, 

Who  struggle  wearily,"  and  faint  and  fall, 
Freely  impart  your  soul's  deep  strength  to  others, 

That  they,  too,  may  be  free  from  error's  thrall ; 
So  shall  your  father  heed  each  weak  endeavour 

That  ye  shall  make  to  tread  temptation  down ; 
And  each  shall  win  at  last,  and  wear  for  ev«r, 

The  victor's  spotless  robe  and  golden  crown. 

IV. 

Fear  Him !  0  Ye,  whose  paths  are  growing  dreary 
With  shadows  gathering  from  the  vale  of  gloom, 

Whose  feet,  from  life's  rough  march,  are  sore  and  weary, 
And  tremble  feebly  as  they  near  the  tomb. 

Fear  Him  !  and  let  your  last  declining  hours 
Be  given  as  nobly  to  the  cause  of  truth, 


12  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 

As  though  ye  still  were  strong  with  Manhood's  powers, 

Or  the  fresh  courage  of  impulsive  youth.? 
So  shall  the  long  day  find  at  last  a  closing, 

And  ye  shall  have  a  better  home  than  this, 
Where,  in  the  light  of  boundless  love  reposing, 

Ye  shall  enjoy  an  endless  age  of  bliss. 
Oh !  God  I  teach  all  mankind  Thy  loving  kindness, 

Thy  mighty  power  to  shield  the  cause  of  right, 
Until,  returning  from  its  wilful  blindness, 

Each  human  soul  shall  seek  Thy  wondrous  light. 
Until  before  Thy  throne  in  praise  low-bending, 

A  ransomed  world  shall  lift  its  songs  for  aye ; 
And  there,  in  gratitude  that  knows  no  ending, 

Shall  fear  Thee  still,  but  low  Thee,  and  obey. 


LET'S  GO   OUT  AND  WALK  TOGETHER.  13 


let's    ffio    Out   anb   Walk 


i. 

Let's   go  out  and  walk  together, 

Down   among   the  leafy  trees, 
While  the    tender  twilight  listens 

To   the  whispers  of  the  breeze; 
And  the  misty   mountain   sleepeth, 

Pillow'd   on   the   hazy   night, 
And  the  face  of  heaven  gloweth 

With  the  evening's  mellow  light. 

II. 

Let's  go  out  and  walk   together, 

Where  the  wildflower  makes  its  bed; 
And   from  starry   eyes   are   falling 

Dew-tears   on  its  drooping  head. 
And  the  gentle  woodbine   clingeth 

To  the   old  oak's  rugged  feet — • 
Where,    among  its   giant   branches 

Gay  birds   sing  themselves   to   sleep. 


14  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


III. 

Let's  go  out  and  walk  together 

Where  the  tall  spire  points  above, 
And  the  solemn  evening  vespers 

Seem  to  whisper,    "God  is   Love!" — 
Where  the  sighing  brooklet  gushes 

Music  from  its  pebbly  brink — 
On  its  verdant  banks  we'll   linger, 

We   will  sit  us  down   and  THINK. 

IV. 

Let's  sit  down  and   think  together, 

Here  beside   this  little   mound — 
How  the  tender  vine  doth  clasp  it, 

Still  half-hidden  in  the  ground — 
While  the  lowly  tendrils  linger, 

Heavenward  turns  its  violet  eyes — 
Here  the  weary  body  sleepeth, 

There  the  blissful  spirit  flies. 

V. 

Let's  sit  down  and  think  together 

Of  those  voyagers   of  life — 
They   who,   fighting  Time's  fierce  battles, 

Fell  and  perished   in  the  strife. 
They  were  strong  and  brave,  yet  feeble — 

Bursting  through  life's  prison  bars, 
They  came  forth  from  tribulation, 

Mounting  up  beyond  the    stars! 


LET'S  GO  OUT  AND   WALK  TOGETHER.  15 


VI. 

Let's  sit  down  and  think  together, 

How  the  loved  who  passed  away, 
Dying,   cast  their  mantles  o'er  us, 

Bidding  us  be  firm  as  they ; 
Bidding  us  be  strong  and   fearless ! — 

Of  the  bright  and  glorious  few, 
Bold  in  thought,   and  bold  in   action, 

Bold  to  speak,   and  bold  TO   DO  ! 


16  POEM3     AND     SKETCHES. 


WafcW 


i. 

The  stars,   the  glorious  stars, 

In  heaven's   immensity, 
Are   gazing  fondly   down 

With   eyes   of  love   on   me. 
Oh   that  my   soul   might  hold 

Companionship   with  them, 
Far   from   the   woes   of  earth, 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men ! 

II. 

Those  orbs  are  angel's  eyes — 

Ah!   beam   they   brightly  now! 
Shed  the  celestial  light  . 

Of  Heaven  upon   my   brow; 
Each   zephyr's   moaning  breath 

Is   e'en   an  angel's  sigh; 
Each    dew-gem  is  a  tear 

Dropt  from  an  angel's  eye! 


SKY     WATCHERS.  1 7 


III. 

Say,   beauteous   spirits,   say, 

What   message   do   ye   bring 
For  us,   poor  sons  of  clay, 

To   which   our  hopes   may   cling? 
Among  the   blissful   throng 

Of  ransomed   ones   above, 
Are   any   dear   to   us 

Whom  we  were  wont  to  love? 

IV. 

Perchance   they  bade   theo  come 

Upon   the   lambent  air 
And  urge  our   spirits   home, 

To  greet  the  loved  ones  there; 
Perchance,   bright  stars,    to   thee 

The   glorious   mission's   given 
To  light   the   shadowy   gulf 

Betwixt  our  souls  and   heaven. 

V. 

Say,   heavenly   watchers,   when 

Thy   silent  vigils   o'er — 
Is   thine   the   holy   light 

That  shines  for  evermore? 
Is   thine   the   gentle   voice 

That  speaks  the   soul  forgiven, 
And   points   the   erring   up, 

In   confidence,   to   heaven? 


18  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


VI. 

Not  till  each  pang  is  o'er, 

Each  tear-drop   -wiped   away, 
Shall  those  celestial  lights 

"Withdraw  one   pitying   ray ; 
Ah!   not  while  sorrow   floats 

On   every  passing  breath, 
And   Youth   and   Love   are   chilled 

By  the  bleak  blast  of  death! 


WHY     NOT?  19 


Whv  Not? 


IF    some   simple-hearted   brother 

Thinks   the   world   all   kind   and   true, 
Huinaa   nature   nearly   perfect, 

And   himself  as — good   as   you;  — 
And   believes   an   humble    station 

Better   than   a   dangerous   height, 
Where   the   ones   beneath   will    taunt  him 

With   their  words   of  envious   spite : 
If    he   seems   with   these   staid   notions 

Quite   contented   with   his   lot, 
Why   not  leave   him   unenlightened? 

For   his   happiness  —  "why    not?" 

II. 

If  the   poor,    with    "pale,   pinched   faces,'' 
Linger   in    the   path   you   tread, 

And   with   thin,   white   hands   extended, 
Cry   to   you   for   daily   bread — 


20  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 

Shall   the  prayers   ascending   upwards 

From   each   vainlj   pleading  lip, 
Set   God's   seal   of  condemnation 

On   your    faithless   stewardship? 
Food   and   clothing   for  the   needy  — 

Shall   they   be    in   vain   besought? 
Why   not   give   them   of  your   plenty? 

Conscience   whispers  it — "why   not?" 


III. 

If  the  friend   you   fondly   cherish, 

Fondness   with   contempt   repays, 
And   when  most  you   love   and   trust  him, 

With   a   traitor's   kiss   betrays: 
As   the   angry   blood   is   mounting 

Burningly   to   brow   and  cheek, 
And   upon   your   lips    are   trembling 

Words    you   hardly   dare   to   speak  — 
Why   not   let   forgiving  feelings 

Mingle    with  your    surging   thought? 
Think  —  the  dying   prayer   of  Jesus 

For  his   cruel   foes,  —  "why   not?" 


IV. 

Brother,    sister,    warring  ever 
On   the   battle   plains   of  life, 

Why   not   struggle   on   more   bravely 
In   the   hot  continued   strife? 


WHY     NOT  ? 


21 


Why   not  point   the   weary   pilgrim 

Oftener   to   his   glorious  goal? 
Why   not   fold   your  arms    of  pity 

Round   the   sorrow-stricken   soul? 
From   the   voice   of  GOD   within   us, 

From   the   precepts   Jesus   taught, 
Like   accusing   angels   whispers, 

Come   the   echoed  words  —  "WHY   NOT?" 


22  POEMS     AMD      SKETCHES. 


The    Born-Poet. 


START  not,  thou  collegian !  Seek  not  to  discover  the  secret 
charm  that  thrills  the  Born-Poet,  within  the  shades  of  collegiate 
lore,  or  in  the  atmosphere  of  professorship.  It  is  not  there! 
.(Esthetics  is  but  a  meagre  dish — an  artificial  flower,  with  but  a 
borrowed  fragrance.  The  Born-Poet  asks  not  refinement,  (fashion 
able  refinement)  nor  rows  of  books  and  high-sounding  words. 
All  these  are  but  daubs  of  the  painter's  brush  upon  a  cloud  at 
sunset;  and  he  who  trusts  to  these  alone,  but  apes  the  beautiful, 
and  babbles  at  the  best. 

I  once  knew  one,  for  whom  l"  may  claim  the  appellation  of 
Born-Poet.  And  yet  he  never  penned  a  song.  Poetry  was  his 
divinity  —  he  lived  in  her  light,  and  bowed  to  her  in  complete 
devotion.  And  was  he  happy?  Not  as  the  gross,  grovelling 
world  esteem  happiness ;  yet  his  soul  drank  in  such  glorious 
fountains  of  joy  from  every  up-springing  flower,  and  blade  of 
grass,  and  dew-drop,  that  his  was  the  happiness  of  the  ethereal 
rather  than  the  earthly.  The  gnarled  oak,  with  its  sinewy  arms 
stretching  out  into  the  dark  forest  —  the  twittering  bird,  the 
whispering  zephyr,  tho  solemn  silence  of  midnight  —  these  were 


THE     BORN     POET.  23 


his  deities.  He  worshipped  them,  communed  with  them,  and 
was  far  happier  than  if  his  companions  had  been  more  communi 
cative  and  less  true. 

But  I  set  out  to  say  something  of  his  trials,  and  I  find 
myself  at  once  flying  off  to  the  balm,  the  restorative,  the  com 
forter.  He  had  sorrows  —  not  every -day,  common-place  sorrows; 
and  if  you  could  have  seen  him — his  dark,  flashing  eye,  his  pale, 
thoughtful  brow,  you  would  say,  perhaps,  that  a  too-killing 
sorrow  had  sought  him  out,  and  that  he  had  accepted  it,  and 
cherished  it,  and  received  it  gladly  into  his  bosom.  Well,  it  is 
true ;  and  in  that  very  truth  is  another  truth  accounted  for.  He 
was  happy  in  stretching  his  heart-strings  to  their  utmost  tension, 
to  see  how  much  they  would  bear  without  breaking.  His  was 
a  sad,  but  not  the  less  exquisite  pleasure ;  he  joyed  in  the  very 
grief  that  was  wearing  him  out;  he  communed  with  the  spirit 
of  loneliness  ;  and  when  it  came  knocking  at  his  heart,  he  would 
open  wide  the  door  of  his  soul  and  invite  it  to  enter. 

Circumstances  had  strangely  conspired  to  make  him  what  he 
was.  His  father  passed  away  before  he  saw  the  light,  and  his 
mind  could  but  faintly  grasp  the  recollection  of  a  sainted  mother, 
who  was  also  sleeping  the  sleep  of  forgetfulness.  He  had  been 
nurtured  by  strange,  unsympathising  ones,  whose  duty  was  paid 
for  with  a  price,  and  whose  instructions  and  promptings  came  not 
from  the  heart.  But  he  was  a  connoisseur,  and  knew  how  to 
detect  the  empty  phrase,  and  the  unmeaning  word,  and  so  his 
own  heart  would  suggest  to  him  that  true  affection  vaunteth  not 
itself,  and  seeketh  no  inspiration  from  the  tinselled  treasure  or 
flattering  song.  And  when  fairy  forms  fluttered  around  him,  and 
the  hum  of  vain  voices  fell  on  his  ear,  he  would  smile  a  smile 
of  disdain,  and  an  emotion  of  disgust  and  pity,  for  human  passion 
and  human  weakness,  would  bubble  np  from  his  heart,  and 
tremble  on  his  tongue. 

Yet  there  was  one  with  whom  the  Born-Poet  felt  he  might 
commune.  She  was  not  of  the  throng  of  fashion  —  she  was  a 


24  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


pensive,  quiet  creature,  unskilled  in  art  and  accomplishment, 
unused  to  fashionable  folly.  But  he  thought  he  could  discover 
beneath  her  calm,  quiet  exterior,  a  soul  that  could  partake  largely 
of  the  noble  and  the  aspiring  —  a  soul  even  like  his  own.  And 
so  he  came  to  sympathize  with  her,  to  love  her,  and  to  live 
for  her.  < 

It  was  strange  how  these  two  beings  came  to  know  each 
other.  The  one  proud,  ( as  the  world  said )  calm,  cold,  passion 
less —  the  other  meek,  quiet,  and  retiring,  weak  in  all  save  love. 
The  one  with  a  placid  face,  on  which  a  smile  of  joy  or  a  cloud 
of  grief  never  came  —  the  other  poor,  plain  and  pensive.  The 
one  a  forest  oak,  defying  the  whirlwind  and  the  tempest  —  the 
other  a  weak:  vine,  unable  to  brave  a  single  harsh  breath.  The 
one  a  mighty  rock,  lifting  its  bold  peak  high  above  the  clouds, 
and  against  which  the  waves  of  ocean  dash  in  vain — the  other 
a  poor,  modest  violet,  which  the  first  billow  might  sweep  away 
and  destroy.  But  the  oak  and  the  vine  — the  rock  and  the 
violet  —  the  strong  man  and  the  weak  girl  —  were  one  in  heart, 
in  affection,  in  soul — and  when  soul  meets  soul,  the  thrill  of 
recognition  instinctively  comes. 

Their  loves  had  never  been  breathed  in  words.  Hearts  have 
no  lip-language ;  and  they  trusted  to  the  holy  promptings  of  their 
own  souls,  rather  than  to  the  foolish  forms  of  arbitrary  phrase. 
And  for  many  months  these  two  spirits  lived  with  and  for  each 
other,  till  at  last,  a  whisper,  a  breath  parted  them.  It  was  like 
tearing  the  heart  out — each  suffered  alike.  The  strong  oak  shook 
like  a  reed  —  the  weak  violet  drooped  and  withered.  A  serpent 
sprang  up  in  their  path,  and  both  recoiled  from  it.  It  was  the 
Slander-serpent ;  and  as  it  passed  between  them,  they  only  once 
gazed  lovingly  upon  each  other,  only  once  blessed  each  other,  and 
then  turned  away  for  over. 

The  slander-spirit  moved  on,  but  a  wreck  marked  the  spot. 
A  blight  had  come.  It  had  fallen  upon  their  hearts  and  homes. 
The  stricken  girl  turned  back  to  her  own  heart  for  support. 


THE     BORN     POET.  25 


Its  mate  was  gone.  It  was  lonely— lonely.  The  hectic  came  to 
her  cheek,  and  the  glare  to  her  eye.  They  blushed  and  burned 
for  a  season,  and  then  passed  away.  The  cheek  became  sunken, 
and  the  eye  lustrelws.  The  serpent-tongue  of  slander  cannot  blast 
the  green  turf  that  thrives  over  her  tomb. 

The  Born-Poet  changed  not,  save  that  his  cheek  became  a 
shade  paler,  his  countenance  more  stern.  True,  that  frown  which 
before  was  only  transient,  now  became  fixed  and  frigid;  but  none 
knew  whether  his  was  a  grief  which  was  comfortless,  or  an 
apathy  which  could  be  shaken  off  never  more ! 


26  POEMS     AND    SKETCHES. 


Mw«i 


i&zwn. 


i. 

MY  MISSION  !   not  to  startle  men, 

With   thoughts   that  burn   and  thrill, 
Nor  by  anathemas   to  stem 

The   tide   of  human   ill; 
Not  mine  to  bask  in  suns  of  fame, 
Nor  revel  on  a  deathless  name, 

By  mighty  wonders   won — 
A   holier  work   is  near   my   heart — 
To  heal  a  pang,   to  soothe  a  smart — 

To  raise  a  fallen  one! 

II. 

My   Mission!   it  is  not  to  dream 

Of  flattery   and  power, 
Nor  feast  and  banquet  as  a  Queen, 

A  mistress   of  an   hour; — 
Nor  mine  to   revel  with   the   throng 
That  wing  the  jest,   or  swell  the  song, 


MY     MISSION.  27 


And  scorn   the   chast'ning   rod ; — 
Ah   no!   with  eye   of  faith,    I    trust, 
To  lift  some  sister  from   the  dust, 

And  point  her  up   to  GOD  ! 

III. 

My   Mission !   'tis  a  holier  one 

Than  mighty   monarchs    know, — 
Wrapped  in  the  war-cloud's  sable   dun, 

They  steep  the  world  in  woe ; 
The   heavy   roar  of  mortal  strife, 
The  shudders  of  expiring   life, 

Their  horrid   anthems   raise  ; 
I'd  change  the  solemn  dirge  of  death, — 
The   voice   of  grief — the  stifling  breath, 

To  songs  of  love  and  praise  I 

IV. 

I   envy   not  the   lordly   chief, 

Wrapped  in   his  robe   of  state — 
To  dry   a  tear — to   soften   grief, 

Is  to  be  truly   great  1 
To   raise  some   mourner  from   the   tomb, 
And  point  him   upward,   through   the  gloom 

That  rests  upon  the  grave ; — 
A  glorious  work  is  left  for  me — 
To  set  some  struggling  captive  free — 

Some  precious   soul  to  save! 


28  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


Western    Home. 


MY   Western   home!    my   western   home 

Still   lingers   in   my  spirits   view, 
Though  freighted   years   of  grief  have  flown 

Since   it  received   my  last   adieu; 
The   rugged   rocks   and   trellis   vine, 

That  fondly  clasped  its  craggy   brow — 
The   wild-rose    and   the   eglantine — 

0,   do  they  bloom  as  sweetly  now? 

II, 

I    long  to  see   the  dimpled  wave 

That  never  ceased  its   gentle   flow, 
Where  oft  at  eve  I  used  to  lave 

In   the  unrippled   depths  below; 
It  seemed  that  music  fresh  from  heaven 

Was  wafted  on   each   zephyr  there — 
Alas !    the   moaning   winds   of  even, 

Chime   wildly   now   with   my  despair! 


MV     WESTERN     HOME.  29 


III. 

I  long   to  see   those   blooming  hills, 

And   fields   of  rich   and   yellow   corn 
And   feel   again   the  joyous   thrills 

Awakened   by   the   hunter's   horn ; 
I  long  to   taste  the  golden   peach, 

That  blushed   upon  its   tiny  stem — 
But  still   I  know  1  ne'er  may  reach 

The  pleasures  that  I  tasted  then! 

IV. 

Behind   a   labyrinth   of  flowers, 

Our  peaceful  homestead  sweetly  slept; 
It  sheltered  me  in   brighter   hours, 

There  I  have  smiled  and  I  have   wept  I 
Those   flowers   by  other   hands   are   reared, 

Those  fields   by  other  feet  are  trod ; 
Those   halls  to   others   are   endeared — 

My   tears   have   drenched   each   friendly   sod ! 

V. 

My   kindred  sleep  beside  the   wave, 

0,  angels!   guard   that   sacred   spot, 
For  though   their  quiet,   moss-grown   grave 

Is  lone,    it   ne'er  can  be   forgot; 
And  if  a  home   remains  for   me 

When   sins   and   sorrows   are   forgiven, 
0,   let   that   Western   cottage   be 

My  home,   I  ask  no  better   heaven ! 


30  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


Live   it    Bourn. 


i. 

LIVE   it  down! — the   tongue  will  tire 

Ere   its   slanderous  hiss   o'ercome   thee; 
Purified   within   the  fire, 

Truth's   bright  mantle   shines   upon   thee. 
Bear  the   blight,   endure  the  shock, 

Hoping  for  a   bright  to-morrow; 
Thou   art  safe  upon  the  rock, 

Fear  not  thou   the  poisoned  arrow ! 

II. 

Live  it  down! — there  is  a  voice 

That   can   stem   the   conflict's  raging; 
It  shall  bid  thy  soul  rejoice, 

Midst  the   war  thy   foes  are  waging! 
Aye,   the   venomed   tongue   shall   hush; 

Truth   and  right  need   no   dissembling; 
Face   the   world   without  a  blush — 

Face  it  without   fear   or  trembling ! 


LIVE     IT     DOWN.  31 


III. 

Live   it   down! — 'twill   not  be   long; 

Study   meekness   and   contentment, 
Time,   be   sure,   will   right   thy   wrong — 

Time  extinguishes  resentment. 
Be   thou  resolute   and  firm, 

E'en   thy   grief  might  still   be   greater; 
When   the   clouds   are   darkest   turn — 

Turn   for   help  to  thy   Creator! 

IV. 

Live   it  down! — the  bruised  reed 

Clasps   the   oak   when  frail   and  slender; 
So,    when   comes  -thy   hour  of  need, 

Cling  unto  the  Great  Defender. 
Spurn  the  prison,  rack,    and  rod — 

Spurn   each  semblance  of  temptation ; 
Leaning  on   the   arm   of  GOD, 

Come   forth   from   thy  tribulation. 


32  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


JLo&i   Sister. 


i. 

I  am  all  alone  in  my  chamber  now, 

And  the  hours   are  flying  fast; 
My  soul,   with  a  listless,  aching   sigh, 

Goes  back   to   the   misty  past; 
It  dwells   on  the   days   when   hope  was   young, 

And  the  heart  beat  fresh   and   free, 
When  it  throbbed  with  a  fond  and  trusting  one, 

Heaven's  choicest  gift  to  me! 

II. 

She  was  all  holy  and  innocent, 

And  her  fringed  eye's  lustrous  hue 
Shone   out  from  the   depths   of  a    faithful    heart, 

All  tender,   and  kind,   and   true ; 
E'en  now  when   the  azure   skies   are   bright, 

And   the  night-orbs    glisten   fair; 
My  straining  eyes  look   up   to   them, 

And  I  see   HER  spirit   there! 


MY     LOST     SISTEK.  33 


III. 

I  see  her  now  as  she   used   to  sit 

By  the  sighing  brooklet's  shore, 
And  laugh  at  the  tiny  waves,    that   leapt 

Into  spray,   as  they  circled  o'er; 

0  the  flowers  smiled,  as  they  bathed  their  cheeks 
In  the   clear   pellucid   stream — 

But  the   scene  is  changed,  and  to  me  is    left 
But  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

IV. 

She  is  gone  for  aye — her  ringing  laugh 

Is  hushed  in  silence  deep— 
She   sleepeth   in   the   mystic   land, 

And   the  angels   her   vigils   keep! 
And  now,   when  the  stars  are   pale  and  pure, 

And  glitter  upon  the   sea, 

1  close  my   eyes   and   dream   of  her — 
Alas !    will  she   dream   of  me  ? 


34  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


Hope    out    of   Sorrow*. 


I. 

THE  strong  south-west  monsoon  arose, 

And   its   voice   was   hoarse   and   bleak, 
Its   gales   were  wild  as   the  storm    is  wild, 

And  they  blanched  a  faithful   cheek; 
It  bore   a  freight   of  grief  and  pain 

From   beyond   the   Indian   sea — 
A  message  of  death   on  the  breezes  came, 

But  I   fonder   turned   to   thee,   mother, 

But  I  fonder  turned  to  thee ! 

II. 

0   the  words   it  spake  were  words  of  gloom; 

Charged   with   their   freight  of  woe, 
The   wailing   breezes   sobbed   and  sighed 

An  ecstacy  of  woe! 


*  The  father  of  the  authoress  died  suddenly  in  ^ndia.  This 
little  piece  was  suggested  on  hearing  of  his  death,  and  addressed 
to  her  widowed  mother. 


HOPE     OUT     OP     SORROW.  35 


But   Hope   kept   whispering,    "Look   upl" 
Look  up !   and  thy  soul  shall  see 

Joy   brimming   forth   from   the   bitter   cup— 
It   shall   still   find   rest  in   thee,   mother, 
It   shall  still  find  rest  in   thee! 

III. 

v 
My   heart  looked   forth   from   the  dreary  maze, 

And   wondered   why   it  wept; 
It  turned   away  from   the   narrow   crypt, 

Where   its   perished   idol   slept — 
For   the   winds   kept  telling  o'er   and   o'er 

These  precious   words  to  me — 
Weep   not  for  those  who  have  gone  before, 

But  live   to   comfort   thee   mother, 

But  live   to   comfort  thee, 

IV. 

And   so  the   wild  south-west  monsoon 
Bore  back   to   that   Indian   clime, 

My  heart's  regrets  for  the  loved  and  lost, 
And  its  faithfulness  to  thine — 

And  it  bore   a   vow — a  holy  vow — 
That  wherever  I  may  be, 

It  shall  ever  throb,  as  it  throbs  e'en  now, 
To  bless  and  be  blessed  by  thee  mother, 
To  bless  and  be  blessed  by  thee. 


36  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


A  M 


"All  the  skill  of  the  great  City 

To  save  that  little  life  was  vain." — DICKENS. 


A  VISION  haunts  me — from  the  past  upgushing 
Its  pictures  come,  sad,  mournful,  yet  serene, 

As  with  a  spell  each  wayward  impulse  hushing, 
The  fleet-winged  years  roll  back  their  shadowy  screen. 

Once  more  I  linger  in  that  realm  of  beauty, 
O'er  which  the  Angel-guards  of  childhood  bow, 

Ere  the  young  soul  has  learned  to  shrink  from  duty, 
Or  sorrow's  thorn-crown  bound  the  bleeding  brow. 

A  golden  head  is  on  my  breast  reclining ; 

A  child's  brown  eyes  are  lifted  soft  and  meek ; 
White,  dimpled  arms  about  my  neck  are  twining, 

And  velvet  lips  are  pressed  against  my  cheek. 

By  the  warm  love-light  rippling  o'er  each  feature, 
Like  morning  sunshine  through  a  flowery  dell, 

I  know  her  well,  sweet,  winsome  little  creature, 
My  baby-sister,  sunny-eyed  Estelle  ! 


A     MEMORY.  37 


The  youngest  darling  of  our  household  treasures, 
Gladding   our  home  by  childhood's  winning  arts  ; 

The  one  pure  presence  heightening  all  our  pleasures, 
And  folding  Heaven  more  closely  to  our  hearts. 


The  scene  is  changed.     I  see  a  tiny  coffin, 
Swelling  to  view  from  many  a  sable  fold, 

While  from  within,  by  muslin  shrouds-plaits  shaded, 
HER  face  gleams  up,  thin,  marble-like,  and  cold. 

Spring's  palest  flowers  the  blue-veined  forehead  pressing 

Lie  still  and  lifeless  as  the  clay  beneath, 
Save  when  the  perfumed  wind,  in  mute  caressing, 

Lifts  their  pure  petals  with  its  silken  breath. 

Bear  hence  her  dust !  'tis  but  an  open  prison, 

An  unbarred  cage  from  whence  the  bird  has  flown 

To  sunnier  climes,  on  snow-white  pinions  risen, 
To  warble  holier  songs  before  the  throne. 

Estelle,  dear  lost  one!  where  the  wind's  low  whispers, 
In  dreamy  tones  through  bending  tree-boughs  creep, 

And  blue-lipped  violets  at  their  silent  vespers 
Shed  dewy  tears — we  laid  thee  down  to  sleep. 

We  love  to  think  when  earthly  cares  enthrall  us, 
Thine  angel  wings  flit  downward  to  our  side, 

Thy  viewless  hands  unclasp  the  chains  that  gall  us, 
And  point  us  softly  to  the  Crucified. 


38  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 

Death  is  no  dark,  mysterious  river,  sweeping 
Through  Life's  green  valleys  with  a  sullen  roar, 

Across  whose  waves  the  sounds  of  mortal  weeping 
Is  borne,  and  echoed  from  the  further  shore ; 

But  a  clear  stream,  whose  low-toned  music  ever, 

Lulls  to  repose  the  weary  and  oppressed ; 
Athwart  whose  tide  Heaven's  glowing  sunbeams  quiver, 

Till  every  billow  wears  a  golden   crest. 

Adown  that  stream,  enwrapped  in  soft,  dim  shadows, 
We,  too  must  glide  when  Earth  unbinds  its  spell, 

Henceforth  to  wander  through  those  flower-strewn  meadows, 
Where  thou  art  waiting  us,  our  lost  Estelle  ! 


LEAVING     HOME.  39 


M 


ome. 


THERE  is  a  place  on  earth  called  "Home."  It  is  bounded 
by  four  walls,  and  its  hearth-stone  is  its  altar-stone.  Dear  asso 
ciations  cluster  around  the  chimney-corner;  and  every  niche,  and 
cranny,  and  broken  brick  is  sanctified  —  sanctified  by  some  plea 
sant  memory.  The  voices  of  sisters  and  mothers,  fathers  and 
brothers,  have  consecrated  the  spot,  hare  resounded  in  the  sacred 
precincts  —  the  voices  of  sisters  and  mothers,  dear  sisters  and  dear 
mothers.  We  have  wandered  from  home,  but  its  magnetism  is 
still  upon  us.  It  is  the  center  of  our  mental  solar  system,  and 
we  revolve  round  its  remembrances  —  are  bound  forever  by  its 
attractions  in  our  life's  orbit. 

John  was  of  age.  The  spirit  of  enterprise  and  restlessness 
had  fastened  upon  him,  and  he  resolved  to  buckle  on  the  armour 
of  self-dependence,  and  go  forth  to  fight  with  the  Goliah  of  the 
world —  the  mighty  Goliah,  whose  spear  is  like  unto  a  weaver's 
beam,  and  who  vaunteth  himself  against  beardless  Davids,  fresh 
from  the  herding  of  cattle. 

John's  last  evening  at  homo  was  a  sad  and  silent  one.  The 
family  circle  gazed  mournfully  at  the  fire  —  looked  uneasily  at  the 
blazing  fire.  The  preparations  had  been  completed,  and  they 
were  very  simple.  There  was  little  sleep  that  night  at  the  farm 
house;  the  inmates  laid  awake,  thinking  of  the  young  man's 
departure  on  the  morrow.  In  the  morning  all  appeared  at  the 
breakfast  table;  but  no  one  felt  like  eating.  The  father  was 
grave ;  the  mother  looked  often  at  John.  This  thought  entered 
her  mind :  — 


40  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


"Perhaps  John  will  never  be  seen  at  the  home-board  again." 

And  the  tears  filled  her  eyes ;  and  she  tried  to  press  them 
back  with  a  strong  effort  of  the  will.  There  was  a  sorrowful 
echo  in  the  brain  which  kept  iterating  —  "Never  be  seen  at  the 
home-board  again ! "  She  could  not  bear  it.  She  arose  and  went 
to  the  window,  as  if  to  observe  something  that  was  passing. 
Sister  Mary's  eyes  were  red;  and  brother  Ned  wore  a  dull,  dubious 
expression. 

John  got  up  from  the  table  and  put  on  his  hat,  casting 
a  significant  glance  at  his  bundle  —  a  small  bundle  in  a  chair 
near  the  door. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  time  to  be  going,"  he  said  in  a  low  and 
rather  thick  voice. 

He  shook  hands  with  Ned,  and  Mary  kissed  him.  He 
attempted  to  smile  and  say  something  encouraging  to  her,  but 
her  warm  lips  melted  down  his  resolution.  He  was  aware  that 
his  father  had  taken  his  hand,  but  his  eye-lids  were  weighing 
heavily  upon  his  eyes,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  raise  them. 

"John,  be  just  and  industrious,"  he  said,  in  a  shaky  voice. 
"If  you  do  not  return  to  us  rich,  come  back  honest  —  come  back 
to  your  old  father  and  mother  honest,  John.  We  have  toiled  side 
by  side,  my  son — many  years  side  by  Bide.  If  I  have  b8en 
harsh  to  you,  or  unforgiving,  you  must  forgive  me,  nor  bear  away 
from  this  paternal  roof  in  your  heart  aught  but  kindness  and 
love  —  kindness  and  love  for  your  father,  John." 

John  tried  to  say,  "Don't,  father!"  but  couldn't.  It  touched 
a  sensative  place  to  hear  the  good  old  man  talk  so  —  talk  so 
Christianly. 

A  softer  hand  grasped  his — a  very  soft  hand,  full  of  mother's 
magnetism  —  mother's  sweet  magnetism.  John's  bosom  was  swell 
ing  tumultuously,  and  he  could  not  summon  courage  to  look  into 
her  eyes. 

"John,"  said  she — the  word  thrilled  him  —  "Time  has  been 
dealing  with  me  for  more  than  half-a-century.  I'm  getting  old  — 


LEAVIXG     HOME. 


41 


I'm  following  those  who  have  given  dust  to  dust.     The  material 
world  is  fading,  and  the  fashion  thereof  changing.    You  are  going 
out  from    before    my  sight,  and  I    may  see    your   lace   no   more. 
John,"  —  the  old  lady's  voice  quivered  affectingly  —  "a  portion  of 
my  being  lives  in  you;    no  other  can  love  you  as  I  do — as  your 
fond  old  mother  loves   you.     Tor  my   sake  be    careful   what   you 
do — be  very  careful  what  you  do,  for  you  cannot  suffer  without 
my  feeling  the  pain:    mothers  feel   their  children's  pain,  John." 
The  good  lady  paused,  and   the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 
"  I'm    afraid  I   shall    never   see   you   again.     Perhaps  this  is 
the  last  time  I  shall   ever  embrace   you.     Oh,  John,  how   can  I 
give   you    up!    how  can  I  suffer  yon   to  depart!     The   days   and 
the  nights  will  be  long  when  yon  have  gone.     I  shall  count  the 
days,  and  lay  awake  nights  —  lay  awake  thinking  of  and  praying 
for  you.     There  is  no  selfishness  in  my  love:    it  is  all-sacrificing, 
all-forgiving,  and   watchful.     Beware   of  evil   influences,  my  son. 
And  whatever  your  misfortunes  or  success  may  be,  do  not  forget 
those  at  home  I  " 

John  was  full  and  running  over  at  the  eyes;  he  wanted  to 
sob  like  a  child,  How  weak  he  was;  how  his  strength  went 
away,  leaving  him  subdued  and  grieving.  He  had  never  dreamed 
that  parting  was  such  an  ordeal.  His  mother,  like  Paul,  fell 
upon  his  neck  and  wept.  And  John  gave  way  and  wept  too. 
She  said,  "  God  bless  you ! "  and  then  ho  departed,  tearful  and 
sorrowing. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  hear  a  mother's  "  God  bless  you  ? " 
It  is  freighted  with  solemn,  thrilling  sweetness.  I  cannot  keep 
back  the  tears  when  I  think  of  it.  Many  lips  that  have  pro 
nounced  it  with  the  fervor  of  inexpressible  love,  are  ashes  to-day ; 
many  hearts  that  have  felt  it  are  crumbling  in  the  narrow 
crypt ;  many  souls  that  are  in  Heaven  have  trembled  at  tho 
pain  of  its  birth. 


42  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


throng   tlie   Mist    of  Years. 


i. 

DIMLY  through  the  mist  of  years 

Beams  upon  my  vision  now, 
Bright  eyes  brimming  o'er  with  tears — 

Smiles   of  joy   on   many   a   brow ; 
Eyes  unused  to  sights   of  woe, 

Hearts  that  never  knew   a  sigh — 
Far  too  pure  for  aught  below, 

Kindred  spirits  sought  on  high. 

II. 

Flowers   decked  the  streamlet's  side, 

Birds  sang  blithely  all  the   day — 
When  the  flowers  drooped  and  died, 

Those  sweet  warblers   soared  away; 
Clouds  of  woe  obscured  each  brow, 

Till  they  burst  life's  prison-bars — 
We  can  see  them  shining  now 

In   the   palpitating   stars. 


DIMLY  THROUGH  THE  MIST  OF  YEARS.         43 


III. 

Those  pure  bosoms  heave   no  more, 

Rest  they  in  a  dreamless  sleep — 
When  the  woes  of  life   are  o'er 

We  with  them   may  cease  to   weep ; 
We  may  meet   them  with  the   throng, 

Never,   never  more  to  part, 
In   a   greeting   fond   and   long, 

Lip  to  lip,   and  heart  to  heart  1 


44  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


©UT   little   Lilly's    B«atk 


i. 

The  evening   zephyrs  sadly  swept 

O'er   many   a   hill   and   plain, 
And  from  its   clear  blue  home   above, 

The   starlight  trembling   came; 
Aye,   earth  was   crowned  with   beauty  then, 

And  'neath  the  breath  of  even, 
Each  dear  and  lovely  object  seemed 

Reflected  back  from  Heaven. 

II. 

On    the  still  couch  the  night-orb   shed 

A   soft   and  silvery  ray, 
Where,   calm  and  pure  a  gentle  one 

In  silent  slumber  lay; 
On  her  young  brow  a  sweet,   sad  smile, 

Diffused  a  radiant  glow, 
While  two  white  hands  were  folded  o'er 

The  pulseless  heart  below. 


OUR     LITTLE     LILLY'S     DEATH.  45 


III. 

We  breathed  with  low,   sad  whispers  then, 

Our  little  lost  one's  name, 
But,    ah !   her  gentle  voice   was  hushed, 

No   answering  greeting  came  I 
Her  gentle  bosom  heaved  no  more 

With  life's   warm,  waving  breath, 
And  our  loved  Lilly   calmly  slept, 

The  last  long  sleep  of  death. 


46  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


lament   of  the   Bcreaveb. 


i. 

I  hear  upon  each  zephyr's  breath, 

That  sweeps   across  the  billowy   sea, 
A  soft,   sad  voice,   now  hushed  in  death, 

In   gentle   murmurs,   whisper  me ; 
And  then   I   think  of  brighter   hours, 

And  memories   of  bliss   and   bloom, 
Of  hopes  as  fleeting  as  the  flowers 

That  grew  and  perished  o'er  her  tomb. 

II. 

No  more  I  see  the  tender  glow 

That  beamed  in  her  effulgent  eye; 
No   more   her   silvery   voice   I  know, 

With   all  its  gush   of  melody; 
But   only  in   the   orbs,   that   shed 

Their   cold,   calm   radiance   on   the   wave 
I  trace  the  image  of  the  dead — 

I  see  the  semblance  of  the  grave! 


LAMENT    OF   THE    BEREAYED.  47 

And  must  I  ever  hopeless  bear 

This  dark,   and  drear,   and   gloomy  part, 
Without  one  kindred  soul  to   share 

The  grief  that  rends  my  wretched  heart? 
While  that  dear  idol  sweetly  rests 

On  some  enchanted  isle  afar — 
Her  form  enshrined  among   the  blest — 

Her  features  beaming  in   each   star. 

IV. 

Ah,  not  a  minstrel  tunes  his  lyre, 

But  sadly  tremble  on  its    strings, 
And  from  the  souls  ethereal  fire 

No  beam  of  true  effulgence  springs, 
The  eartji  is  sad,   and  cold,   and   drear, 

And  hoarsely  moans  the  hoary  sea — 
No  spark  of  hope  will  linger  hear, 

While  memory  is  left  to  me. 

V. 

0,  let  me  close  these  tear-dimned  eyes, 

Since  hope  is  fled,   and  passion   o'er, 
And  dream  of  her  beyond  the  skies, 

Who  is  not  lost,  but  gone    before ! 
So  may  her  gentle  presence  fill 

My  longing  soul  with   light  and  flame, 
Till  passion's  waves  are  hushed  and  still, 

Till  life  and  joy  are  mine  again! 


48  POEMS     AND      SKETCHES. 


Eloquence, 


i. 

I  have  seen  a  bird  from  its  woodland  nest, 

Soar  up  to  the  deep  blue  sky, 
Till  the  fading  lines  of  its  distant  form 

Were  lost  to  my  upturned  eye ;     . 
I  have  watched  the  spot  where  it  disappeared, 

In  its  dim  and  noiseless  flight, 
Until,  as  returning  again  to  earth, 

It  came  to  my  longing  sight, — 

II. 

And  then  to  my  ear  have  its  warblings  seemed 

So  holy,  and  soft,  and  clear, 
That  I  almost  knew  it  had  learned  above, 

The  strains  of  a  brighter  sphere. 
I  have  turned  away  to  my  daily  toil  — 

But,  thrilled  by  that  simple  song, 
My  heart  has  become,  for  its  melody, 

More  loving,  and  pure  and  strong ! 


ELOQUENCE.  49 


III. 

I  have  watched  the  flight  of  a  noble  mind, 

Through  realms  of  its  own  high  thought, 
Up,  up,  till  its  pinions  were  bathed  in  light, 

From  a  holier  region  caught ; 
I  have  waited  long  for  its  slow  descent, 

That  my  yearning  heart  might  know 
The  message  of  hope   and  love  it  brought 

To  the  weary  souls  below, — 

IV. 

I  have  turned  away  to  my  daily  toil, 

But   still  have  its  teachings  been, 
Like  a  silent  and  all-resistless  power 

To  the  whisperings  of  sin. 
I  have  gained  new  strength  from  its  counselings, 

And  so  hath  my  path  been  trod, 
With  a  deepened  love  for  my  fellow-man, 

And  a  stronger  trust  in  GOD. 


50  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


Misericonha. 


Murky  night,  and  speeds  the  blast, 
Rushing  like  a  warrior  past, 
Where  shall  it  find  rest  at  last? 

Where  the  pang,  the  grief,  the  smart, 
Rankles  in  the  bleeding  heart, 
Pierced  by  many  a  fatal  dart! 

Down  among  its  gloomy  caves, 
Restless  as  the  ocean  waves, 
Dark  and  damp  as  sinners'  graves ! 

Yet  the  dreary  night-winds  moan 
Round  a  vacant  hearth  and  home, 
Bidding  her  who  reft  it,  come ! 

Come  and  visit  it  again — 

Come  with  all  thy  guilt  and  stain, 

While  the  lonely  ones  remain. 


MISERICORDIA.  51 


Come  and  see  the  vacant  chair 
Drawn  up  to  the  hearthstone  there — 
What  a  teacher  for  despair ! 

Thing  of  wretchedness  and  sin, 

Stifle  all  that  feels  within, 

While  thine  eyes  look  forth  on  himl 

Stifle  each  remorseful  feeling 

Every  lineament  revealing 

How  his  woes  are  with  him  dealing! 

Sorrow  where  all  once  was  fair, 
Sitting  on  his  brow,  despair! — 
Wretched  one,  thy  work  it  there! 


52  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


A    Fragment. 


Who  has  not  seen  some  solitary  glen 
Sleeping  in  silence  far  from  haunts  of  men  ? 
Where  stately  trees  in  drapery  of  green, 
Hunt  out  the  glinting  sunshine  from  the  scene  ; 
While,  far  below,  screened  from  the  light  of  day, 
A  babbling  brook  pursues  its  devious  way — 
Now  glides  as  noiseless  as  the  wily  snake, 
Now  disappears  behind  some  friendly  brake — 
Now  blushes  crimson,  as  the  sun's  red  ray 
Bursts  through  the  trees  to  kiss  its  gloom  away; — 
Now  prattles  with  the  pebbles,  telling  o'er 
Some  wondrous  legend,  never  heard  before ; — 
Now  flowing  onward,  silent,  dark  and  deep, 
Now  thundering  down  the  bold  and  rocky  steep — 
As  if  its  sullen  waters  longed  to  be 
Lost  in  the  vastness  of  the  mighty  sea  1 


IMMORAL     POETRY.  53 


Immoral    Poetry. 


;<  Oh,   love,   oh,   fire !    once    he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss,   ray  whole  soul   through 
My  lips." 


WE  have  of  late  seen  this  "glowing  stanza"  selected  by  some  of 
our  journalists,  from  others  of  the  same  stamp,  as  a  literary  gem 
of  the  first  water,  from  the  elaborate  casket  of  TENNYSON  ;  but  we 
venture  to  confess  to  a  different  judgment  upon  it,  and  to  pro 
nounce  it,  as  we  do  many  of  the  same  collection,  to  be  of  false 
brilliancy,  and,  though  showy,  deficient  in  intrinsic  worth — not  the 
diamond,  but  its  counterfeit— which  the  scrutinizing  lapidary  would 
reject,  however  it  might  dazzle  and  deceive  the  unwary.  But,  to 
indulge  no  longer  in  metaphor,  we  contend  that  propriety  of  senti 
ment  is  as  essential  to  elevate  poetry  as  elegance  of  expression,  and 
that,  however  gorgeous  the  apparel  which  excited  genius  may 
throw  around  sensuality,  it  cannot  conceal  its  deformities,  or  render 
it  other  than  revolting  to  pure  minds  and  refined  tastes.  What,  for 
instance,  should  we  think  of  the  above  gross  idea,  if  stripped  of 


54  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


the  magic  of  a  name,  and  the  harmony  of  verse,  and  rendered  in 
plain  prose,  or  colloquial  English  ?  —  as  we  shall  not  do  by  it ;  for, 
although  the  manner  -would  be  offensive,  the  matter  would  be  dis 
gusting  ;  and  we  have  no  desire  to  present  our  readers  a  new 
feature  in  psychology,  which,  though  novel,  we  should  hardly  con 
sider  delicate.  Nor  can  we  speak  very  favorably  of  Miss  Fatima, 
or  of  any  other  Miss,  who  would  own  to  such  invasion  of  her  lips, 
or  such  extortion  of  her  inner  life,  when,  to  acknowledge  she  has 
been  kissed  at  all,  requires,  from  a  properly  constituted  female,  the 
plea  of  consanguinity,  of  intimate  connection,  or  the  sanction  of 
plighted  love,  or  of  wedded  privilege,  to  make  it  admissible ;  and 
some  such  palliation  to  excuse  her  unblushing  avowal  of  it.  And 
then,  oh,  Cupid,  such  a  kiss!  We  think  the  fiery  annals  record 
not  the  like  of  it.  Why,  even  that  of  BOWLES,  immortalized  by 
BYBON,  which  caused  the  woods  of  Madeira  to  tremble,  not  so 
much  with  delight  as  with  amazement,  was  as  feeble,  when  com 
pared  with  it,  as  the  cold  and  formal  salutation  of  Gallic  custom, 
to  the  hearty  smack  the  clown  inflicts  on  the  unctuous  lips  of  his 
inamorata.  If  the  conceit  of  BOWLES  be  ridiculous,  it  is  more  toler 
able  than  TENNYSON'S,  because  more  decent. 

We  are  not  of  those  who  approve  the  frequent  introduction  of 
these  physical  manifestations  of  the  tender  passion  in  compositions, 
whether  of  prose  or  of  verse,  and  we  have  remarked  in  TENNYSON  a 
stronger  tendency  to  what  we  consider  a  violation  of  the  sweet 
uses  of  poetry,  in  this  particular,  than  in  any  other  of  our  modern 
authors,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  ALEXANDER  SMITH — who  is 
a  greater  poet  than  TENNYSON.  But  with  both  of  these  celebrities, 
kissing,  embracing,  and  such  like  manipulatory  demonstrations  of 
attachment,  are  too  often  substituted  for  that  more  delicate  and 
spiritual  commerce  between  heart  and  heart,  and  soul  and  soul, 
which,  in  our  opinion,  makes  love  what  it  should  be — a  sentiment, 
rather  than  a  sensuality  —  a  moral,  not  an  animal  gratification. 
We  hope  man  has  been  taught  in  a  school  of  purer  ethics  than  to 
regard  our  sex  as 

"A  toy,  for  idle  play, 
To  use  but  till  the  gilding  wears  away." 


IMMORAL     POETKY.  55 


as  he  would  certainly  consider  us,  if  he  estimated  us  only  by  the 
standard  of  Mr.  TENNYSON  and  his  compeers,  and  looking  not 
beyond  mere  outward  attraction  to  captivate  his  affection,  or 
inspire  his  song.  For  our  own  part,  we  think  such  heroines  as 
Fatima,  should  excite  abhorence  instead  of  admiration,  and  such 
ebullitions  of  delirious  passion  as  she  expresses,  be  considered  better 
fitted  to  the  mad-house,  than  to  the  requirements  of  rational  and 
decorous  life;  and  while  we  can  readily  imagine  that  no  useful 
lesson  in  natural  or  human  emotion  is  to  be  learned  from  such 
demoralizing  hyperbole,  we  are  equally  convinced  it  may  lead  to 
folly,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  We  desire  not  to  limit  Poetry  to  the 
actual,  for  this  would  be  to  curtail  her  of  her  lawful  and  most 
delightful  province;  but  we  would  have  her  to  be  chaste  in  her 
imaginings ;  to  address  herself  more  to  the  sensibilities  than  to  the 
senses ;  to  teach  us  to  desire  the  fellowship  of  the  spirit,  more  than 
the  charms  of  the  person ;  and  to  represent  beauty  as  but  the 
auxiliary  to  modesty — as  the  outer  garment  of  those  hidden  and 
superior  graces  which  unfold  themselves  with  diffidence  to  the 
respectful  advances  of  the  sterner  sex  —  and  which,  like  the  exqui 
site  leaves  of  that  perfect  emblem  of  feminine  reserve,  the  sensitive 
plant,  are  rather  designed  to  recoil  from  the  breath  of  rude  and 
wanton  approach,  than  to  encourage  it. 

We  have  hazarded  these  observations  at  the  risk  of  being  con 
sidered  hypercritical,  because  we  love  the  muse  and  respect  our 
sex,  and  regard  both  as  given  for  nobler  purposes  than  such  verse 
as  we  have  deprecated  would  imply  —  the  one  to  inspire  the  heart 
of  man  with  chaste  and  holy  ardour;  the  other  to  kindle  it  to 
fervent  but  temperate  flame.  We  .prefer  to  eschew  Poetry  alto 
gether,  when  she  parts  company  with  Propriety,  because  then  we 
could  not  have  Modesty  by  our  side  to  listen  to  her  outpourings, 
or  ask  Innocence  to  sympathise  with  us  in  her  communions. 
When  her  conceptions  raise  a  blush,  or  the  remotest  indication  of 
one,  on  the  cljeek  that  should  never  glow  with  other  than  holy  or 
healthful  agitation ;  or  when  her  expressions  startle  the  fibres 
•which  reach  to  the  citadel  where  we  would  have  native  Purity  to 
sit  enshrined  and  immaculate,  — 


56 


POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


"  Chaste  as  the  icicle 

That's  curdled  by  the  frost  of  purest  snows, 
And  hangs  on  Plan's  temple"  — 

we  have  done  with  her,  and  abandon  her  to  the  licentious  of  the 
one  sex,  and  the  "strong-minded"  of  the  other,  to  whose  less  fas 
tidious  and  hardier  constitution  she  may  prove  a  more  acceptable 
and  less  dangerous  teacher  and  associate. 


TUB     DREAM     OF     YESTERDAY.  57 


The    Bream    of   Yesterbaj?. 


i. 

DELUSIVE  dream  of  yesterday, 

Why  vanish  thou  so  soon  away  ? 

The  throbbing  brain,  the  moisoned  eye, 

The  quivering  lip,  and  heaving  sigh, 

Though  wrung  from  out  the  spirit's  grief, 

Still,  still  afford  a  poor  relief. 

II. 

But  when  the  tear-drops  will  not  start, 
And  burn  and  blister  on  the  heart, — 
When  the  wild  passion  darkly  roll 
Their  turbid  torrents  o'er  the  soul, 
Who,  then,  may  measure  the  despair 
That  burns,  like  a  volcano,  there  ? 

III. 

Delusive  dream  of  yesterday, 
I  may  not,  will  not  bid  thee  stay ; 


58  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 

I  scorn  the  sigh,  the  briny  tear — 
There  is  no  foolish  weakness  here ! 
I'll  wrap  me  in  my  robe  of  gloom, 
And  wait  in  silence  for  the  tomb. 

IV. 

What  care  I  for  the  boisterous  throng, 
The  witty  word,  the  merry  song, 
The  shining  tress,  the  form  of  grace, 
The  blazing  eye  and  blushing  face?  — 
All  these  are  false  and  vain  to  me — 
A  jest,  a  hollow  mockery  ! 

V. 

Delusive  dream  of  yesterday, 
Thine  was  a  bright  and  lurid  ray, 
But  darkened  with  the  beam  of  Him* 
Who'll  shine  again,  though  thou  art  dim! 
I'd  laugh  although  His  morrow's  birth 
Should  scatter  madness  o'er  the  earth. 

VI. 

For  why  may  other  hearts  still  feel 
Imagined  rapture,  though  unreal, 
And  beat  and  brighten  with  a  spark 
Of  hope  or  love,  while  mine  is  dark? — 

*  The  Sun. 


THE    DKEAM     OP    YESTERDAY.  59 


Companionship  in  my  despair, 
Might  shed  some  consolation  there ! 

VII. 

Though  crushed  the  heart,  and  seared  the  brain, 
Though  darkness  spreads  its  pall  again — 
I  heed  not,  in  my  hour  of  gloom, 
The  smile  of  love,  or  beauty's  bloom ; 
I  laugh  thy  mockery  away, 
Delusive  dream  of  yesterday ! 


60  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


Semini 


iscences. 


I 

i. 

'Tis  but  a  very  little  while 

Since  with  my  satchel  in  my  hand, 
And  on  my  face  a  joyous  smile, 

I  roamed  amidst  the  school-girl  band, 
Aye,  I  was  blest  and  happy  then 

When  laugh  and  song  rang  gaily  out, 
Resounding  through  the  forest  glen, 

That  echoed  with  the  torrents  shout. 

-      II. 

The  old  school-house,  with  moss  o'ergrown, 

That  nestled  sweetly  by  the  hill, 
Where  erst  the  youthful  look  and  tone 

Sent  to  my  heart  a  holy  thrill; — 
Ah !  to  my  vision  now  it  seems 

Some  lonely  and  enchanted  place, 
The  highwrought  image  of  my  dreams, 

Which  time  can  never  quite  efface. 


BEMIXICENCES.  61 


III. 

0  blest  and  holy  is  each  thought 

That  links  my  heart  with  those  bright  hours, 
When  little  gleesome  children  brought 

A  flower-wreathed  vine  to  deck  our  bowers', 
And  ever  loving,  trusting,  then, 

We  built  our  arbours  on  the  stream, 
Nor  thought  of  sorrow  yet  to  come, 

But  as  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

IV. 

And  as  we  left  the  school-room    door, 

When  the  wild  winds  blew  sharp  and  keen, 
Oh,  how  we  danced  and  gamboled  o'er 

The  glittering  robe  of  snow  and  sheen  I 
We  loved  the  winters  frosty  breath, 

On  icy  pinions  fleeting  by ; — 
Ah  !  now  it  seems  the  voice  of  death, 

And  every  breeze  awakes  a  sigh. 

V. 

Where  are  those  smiling  faces  now, 

In  school-girl  days  that  beamed  so  bright  ? 
And  where  the  teacher's  noble  brow, 

We  gazed  upon  with  pure  delight ; 
Gone,  like  the  flitting,  fleecy  cloud, 

That  drives  along  the  azure  skies ; — 
Gone,  like  the  bud  that  bursts  in  bloom 

Then  bows  its  head,  and  droops,  and  dies. 


62  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


VI. 

Some  o'er  the  world's  wide  desert  roam, 

Some  plough  the  billowy  ocean  waves , — 
But  every  echo  tells  of  home, 

Of  perished  hopes  and  lonely  graves, 
For  not  a  heart  that  beats  so  high, 

As  it  were  wont  in  other  years  ; 
The  cheek  is  pale,  and  dim  the  eye, 

Beneath  a  burning  weight  of  tears. 

VII. 

Alas !  so  false  youth's  fond  hopes  prove, 

So  doomed  to  trial  and  regret ; 
The  pure,  pale,  glimmering  stars  we  love, 

Soonest  in  silent  darkness  set. 
But,  like  those  loved  and  lost,  they  rise 

Brighter  and  purer  than  before, 
And  in  yon  bright,  eternal  skies, 

Live  in  GOD'S  love  for  evermore. 


THOU     ART     BELOVED.  63 


Thou   art    Beloved. 


THOTT  art  beloved !  — 
I  tell  it  to  the  breeze,  but  ah !  from  thee 
I  guard  it  with  a  mournful  secrecy. 
Breeze  that  hast  roved 

From  early  morn  through  glen  and  woodland  dim, 
Scattering,  like  showers  of  gems,  the  scented  dews 
From  verdurous  bough  and  rainbow-tinted  cup, 
Lifting  each  dainty  leaflet  up, 
To  drop  sweet  notes  into  thy  charmed  hymns; 
To  thee,  oh  breeze,  my  thoughts  I  loose, 
Like  severed  rose-leaves  sweet; 
Bear  thou  the  broken  harmony  complete 
To  the  fair  maid, 

Leaning  from  vine-wreathed  casement  down  the  glade 
Listening  for  coming  feet; 
Paving  the  path  with  music  of  her  dreams  — 
The  while  the  ripples  of  her  shining  hair 
Enrich  with  golden  sweep  the  dusky  air  — 
When  to  thy  soft  caress  the  light  vine  stirs, 
Whispers,  until  it  seems 
The  echo  of  the  heart  that  beats  with  hers  — 
"  Thou  art  beloved." 


64  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


II. 

Thou  art  beloved  — 

I  write  it  on  the  waves,  but  not  to  thee, 
Heart-idol  shrined,  adored,  unwittingly. 
There,  where  the  moonlight  lies, 
Silvering  the  edge  of  each  wave  that  up-curls 
Its  azure,  lined  with  braided  pearls, 
A  light  barque  flies 

On  wings  of  white  across  the  moonlit  deep, 
With  one,  perchance,  whom  doubt  hath  robbed  of  sleep. 
He  dreams  of  home, 

Casting  swift  thoughts,  like  pearls,  into  the  foam, 
As  part  the  shining  waves. 
He  marvels  if  fond  hearts  have  changed  — 
If  silent  absence  hath  the  love  estranged ; 
And  thinks  if  zephyrs  pass, 
Gathering  the  scent  of  daisies  from  the  grass 
On  new-made  graves! 
Swift  be  the  pang  removed, 
Of  pitiless  despair  and  doubt,  0  waves ! 
As  if  an  angel  were  empowered  to  write 
In  characters  of  light, 

This  truth,  that  warm  hearts  wait  him,  let  him  see 
These  words  the  moonbeams  there  have  traced  for  me, 
"  Thou  art  beloved." 

III. 

Thou  art  beloved — 
I  breathe  it  unto  GOD,  but  not  to  thee, 


THOU      ART     BELOVED.  65 


Even  to  him  who  reads 

Our  feeble  nature's  mighty  needs, 

In  the  grand  hush  of  His  eternity. 

Thy  dear  name  shall  not  pass  my  lips, 

Save  in  the  darkness  of  the  minds  eclipse ; 

When,  like  the  miser  at  the  gate  of  Death, 

Dropping  his  hoarded  treasures  with  his  dust, 

My  heart,  through  weakness  treacherous  to  its  trust, 

Casts  down  its  gems  unconsciously. 

My  hopes  have  proved 

But  Dead-Sea  apples  crumbling  at  a  touch! 

Life's  overmuch 

Of  pain  intense  shall  cease  alone  with  breath, 

Impassable  the  gulf  twixt  thee  and  me — 

A  wild  Red  Sea  with  none  to  part  the  waves. 

Thy  love  my  spirit  craves, 

As  flowers  the  sunlight  —  fails  me  utterly. 

Ah!  when  the  eternal  morning  dawns, 

And  amaranthines  shall  displace  the  thorns; 

When  on  my  brow 

No  roseate  blush  shall  overspread  the  snow 

Up-crimsoning  from  my  heart  at  thought  of  thee, 

Revealing  secret  strife; 

And  when,  all  saintly  white, 

With  leanings  toward  God  and  angel  life^ 

I  meet  thee  crowned  with  light ;  — 

Then  shalt  thou  view  within  my  soul  as  clear 

As  gems  in  sun-kissed  waves,  or  stars  at  night, 

This  truth,  sacredly  guarded  here  — 

Thou  art  beloved.  MILLT. 


66  POEMS     AND    SKETCHES. 


There   is   no   Sin    in   jLovin-g    jTnee. 


i. 

THERE  is  no  sin  in  loving  thee, 

Since  hope  denies  its  gladsome  glow, — 
Since  fate  has  sealed  its  stern  decree, 

I  dream  of  joys  I  ne'er  may  know; — 
Since  thou  art  all  of  love  and  bliss, 

But  from  my  reach  art  placed  afar, 
I'll  love  in  plaintive  silence — yes, 

I'll  love  thee,  as  I'd  love  a  star ! 

II. 

There  is  no  sin  in  loving  thee, 

Though  other  ears  my  vows  have  known, 
And  other  hearts  have  learned  to  be 

Thrilled  by  my  jest — swayed  by  my  tone ; 
There  is  no  wrong  in  worshiping 

The  bright,  the  beautiful,  the  fair, 
Though  to  my  heart  each  pulse  may  bring 

The  silent  throbbings  of  despair. 


THERE    IS    NO    SIN    IN    LOVING    THEE.  67 


III. 

Though  sluggish  waters  darkly  flow 

Where  poisonous  vapours  float  along, 
They  love  the  fountain's  crystal  glow, 

They  love  the  murmuring  brooklet's  song ! 
Though  fettered  in  the  dungeon's  gloom, 

The  prisoned  captive  clasps  his  chain, 
He  loves,  amidst  that  darkened  room, 

To  dream  of  liberty  again ! 

IV. 

Though  bound  in  withes  of  woe,  the  soul 

Grovels  and  broods  o'er  things  of  earth, 
The  free-born  spirit  spurns  control, 

And  mounts  to  a  celestial  birth — 
Though  struggling  midst  the  great  world's  strife, 

Mortal  may  burst  his  prison-bars, 
And  soar  to  an  immortal  life, 

Among  the  myriads  of  stars ! 

V. 

There  is  no  sin  in  loving  thee  ! 

E'en  from  the  regions  of  the  air 
My  wandering  soul  returns  to  me, 

And  finds  no  holier  spirit  there  ! 
Among  the  vast  ideal  throng, 

Whose  wafted  wings  the  zephyrs  part, 
No  beauties  and  no  bliss  belong, 

Like  those  that  cluster  round  thy  heart ! 


68  POEMS      AND     SKETCHES. 


VI. 

Then  let  my  lonely  spirit  glow, 

Its  idol  is  of  heavenly  birth — 
Why  should  the  immortal  only  know 

The  faults  and  follies  of  the  earth  ? 
Like  a  weak  wave,  that  loves  the  shore, 

And  springs  to  greet  it  from  the  sea, 
I  hope,  I  live,  I  breathe  no  more, 

Save  in  one  endless  dream  of  thee ! 


PRAYER  OF  THE  NEGLECTED  WIFE.  69 


Prater    of   the    Se^ecfeb    Wife. 


i. 

Teach  me,  0  God,  to  bear 
With  grace,  the  heavy  burden  of  my  woe — 
Thou  only  canst  remove  this  weight  of  care, 

And  dry  these  tears  that  flow. 

II. 

Pity  me,  0  my  God ! 

For  I  have  vowed,  beneath  this  weary  load, 
To  tread  a  path  which  faltering  feet  have  trod — 

This  dark  and  thorny  roa«I. 

III. 

And  I,  whose  panting  heart 
So  longs  for  hope,  and  love,  and  sympathy, 
Have  bowed  beneath  the  storm — have  felt  the  smart, 

.Chastened,  0  God,  by  Thee  I 


70  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


IV. 

0,  Father,  pity  me ! 

Thou  shelterest  always  in  the  threat'ning  hour — 
And  in  my  feebleness,  I  ask  from  Thee 

The  strength,  the  mighty  power, 

V. 

To  stand  serenely  up, 

Beneath  this  burning  weight  of  unshed  tears, 
I  stifle  back — the  bitter,  bitter  cup, 

That  I  must  drink  for  years. 

VI. 

Father,  my  soul  is  dark ! 

Light  Thou  the  dreary  pathway  that  I  tread — 
Temper  the  waves  around  my  fragile  bark, 

The  winds  above  my  head. 

VII. 

For  he,  whose  manly  breast 
Promised  to  shelter — but  forgets  its  trust; 
He  who  should  fold  me  in  his  arms  to  rest, 

But  bows  me  in  the  dust. 

VIII. 

My  fainting  form  is  weak! 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  mine  eyes  are  dim — 
For  I  must  bear,  when  sympathy  I  seek, 

Neglect  and  scorn  from  him ! 


PRAYER    OF     THE     NEGLECTED     WIFE.  Vl 

IX. 

Poor  woman's  heart  who  knows? 
Brim-full  of  tears  as  ocean  of  its  foam, 
It  weeps,  and  suffers,  bears  a  weight  of  woes, 

And  breaking,  yet  beats  on. 

X. 

From  Thee  I  crave  relief, 
0  God — for  Thou  canst  save  from  all  alarms — 
Then  bear  my  fainting  spirit  up,  beneath 

Thine  everlasting  arras. 


72  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


To    a    Sfar-Breamer. 


i. 

Why   sing   to   orbs   insensible, 

When  day   is  done? 
Be  there  no  hearts  to  love  thee   well, 

Thou  lonely  one! 
Be   there   no   sufferings   to  soothe, 
No   hopes   to   cheer,    no   brows   to   smooth, 
No   souls   to  bless,    no    hearts   to   love, 

Beneath  the  sun  ? 

II. 

There   be   no   spirits   in   the   air, 

Or  in   the   sky, 
To   soothe   thy   griefs,   thy   love   to    share, 

Thy  tears   to   dry! 

The   night-orbs   burn   with   borrowed   blaze, 
Their   lustre   dim,   and   cold   their   rays — 
The   evening   stars   but   meet   thy   gaze 

"With   mocking   eye! 


TO    A   STAR-DREAMER.  73 


III. 

But   there   be   human   hearts   that  thrill 

With   sympathy, 
And   know   no   thought,   in   good  or  ill, 

But  truth  to   thee! 

Their   love   will   shine   with  constant  ray, 
To  gild   thy   dark   and   lonely    way! — 
Why   dost   inconstant  turn   away 

From  them  and  me? 

IV. 

The   tinted   fields  are  rich   with   flowers, 

With   dew-drops   bright ; 
The  weeping  clouds  refresh  with  showers, 

Or   smile   in   light; 
The   breezes  waft  from  summer  skies 
A  thousand  tints   of  golden  dyes, 
And  every  spray  delights   the  eyes, 
And  glads  the  sight. 

V. 

The  modest  violet,   lowly,   meek, 
From  the   sun's  ray — 
A  thousand  blushes  on  its  cheek — 

Shrinking  away; 

It  bows   its   head  beneath   the   storm, 
Sweet  emblem   of  life's   early   morn, 
Of  innocence  and  beauty  born — 
Happy  and  gay. 


74  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


VI. 

The  giant  forest  waves  its  arms, 

And   points   to   heaven — 
Now   fanned  by   zephyrs,   lashed    by   storms, 

By  tempests  riven, 

The   blooming  vales,   the   flower-crowned   hills, 
The   cooling   springs,   and   gushing  rills — 
The   very  heart  of  nature   thrills — 
As  if  from  heaven. 

VII. 

The  waves  of  ocean  kiss  the  shore 

In   dalliance   gay, 
Glowing  and   sparkling  evermore, 

Bright  as   the   day; 

They  rise  in  clouds,   dissolve  in  rain, 
Now   sigh  with  joy,   or  shriek  with   pain, 
And  dash  against  the  rocks   in  vain, 

Then  melt  in  spray. 

VIII. 

The  bird   that  seeks  the  summer  sky, 
Bright  plumed  and  fair, 

Sings  its  sweet  song,   but  knows  not   why, 
And  cleaves  the  air; 

Its  life  the  loving  hand  bestows, 

Who  rules   the  seas,   who  paints  the  rose; 

And  e'en  the  little  warbler  knows 
That  God  is   there! 


TO     A     STAE-DREAMER.  75 


All   things  are  joyous — God  ia  good — 

Enthroned   above, 
He  stills  the  tempest,   stays  the   flood; 

The  fountains  move! 
Then   lift   thy   dim   and   weary   eyes, 
And  let  thy  heart  like  incense  rise 
To   praise   the  Ruler  of  the   skies — 

The  Source  of  Love! 


76  POEMS     AND      SKETCHES. 


M 


emores. 


WHEN  the  low,  mournful  echoes  of  the  past, 

Send  sighing  sadly  back  their  dirge-like  strain, 
And  chaunt  of  joys  too  precious  far  to  last — • 

And  hours  of  bliss  I  ne'er  may  know  again — 
Ah !  then  the  aching  heart  feels  sad  and  lone, 

And  broods  with  miser  care  o'er  pleasures  fled  ; 
And  mourns  with  bitter  grief  for  loved  ones  gone 

Down  to  the  silent  chambers  of  the  dead ! 

II. 

Ah  !  not  one  hand  in  this  world's  wilderness, 

Can  smooth  care's  furrow's  on  my  saddened  brow, 
And  not  a  heart  can  feel  for  the  distress 

That  preys  upon  my  icebound  heart-strings  now ! 
Ah,  no !  each  hand  has  other  brows  to  smooth, 

Without  whose  charm  would  clouds  of  woe  o'ercast, 
And  each  fond  heart  has  other  hearts  to  love, 

Without  whose  love  would  break  'neath  sorrow's  blast! 


SAD      MEMORIES.  77 


III. 

0,  bruised  and  shattered  heart,  why  wert  thou  left 

To  beat  alone  on  this  bleak,  desert  shore, 
Without  one  spot  where  thou  could'st  safely  rest ; 

When  passion's  waves  around  thy  pathway  roar  ? 
And  why  did  not  this  care-rent  bosom  cease 

To  feel,  ere  it  had  known  the  weight  of  care, 
And  this  poor  pulse  be  still,  ere  woe  and  grief 

Had  taught  the  soul  its  lesson  of  despair ! 

IV. 

From  thy  pure,  blissful  home,  oh  loved  and  lost, 

Come  to  the  heart  that  throbs  so  lonely  now, 
And  warm  the  bosom,  chilled  by  winds  and  frost, 

That  pale  the  cheek,  and  furrow  o'er  the  brow ; — 
And  when  on  earth  its  sighs  and  dreams  are  o'er, 

And  it  shall  sink,  with  keenest  anguish  riven, 
When  sorrow's  surges  shall  be  heard  no  more, 

0,  let  it  throb  with  joy  again — in  heayen  ! 


POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


Thou  hast  f(eb,  bright  aru)  <)(orious  Yision. 


i. 

THOU  hast  fled,  bright  and  glorious  vision, 

From  my  heart  thou  hast  fled  but  too  soon, 
And  has  changed  its  enchanted  Elysian, 

To  a  lone  waste  of  sorrow  and  gloom  ; 
As  a  sunbeam  thy  beauty  has  vanished, 

And  the  clouds  of  despair  have  come  o'er; 
For  the  joy  of  life's  morning  is  banished — 

Hope  sleepeth  to  wake  nevermore. 

II, 

As  a  statue  of  sorrow  and  sadness, 

I  gaze  on  the  beauty  of  earth  ; 
For  the  dawn  of  a  young  spirits  gladness, 

Fades  e'en  as  it  springs  into  birth ; 
My  sad  heart  is  desolate,  dreary, 

And  troubled  by  storm  and  by  wave — • 
But  the  lone,  and  the  weak,  and  the  weary, 

Shall  rest  in  the  calm  of  the  grave ! 


THOU    HAST    FLED,    BRIGHT   AND     GLORIOUS    VISION.          79 


III. 

Is  there  aught  in  the  bright  world  above  us, 

When  the  storms  of  affliction  arise, 
To  fondly  bend  o'er  us  and  love  us, 

And  guide  our  frail  bark  to  the  skies  ? 
Ah !  yes — when  the  tempest-tost  ocean, 

To  the  breakers  our  vessel  hast  driven, 
It  whispers  that  storm  and  commotion, 

Shall  hasten  our  spirits  to  heaven ! 


80  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


The    Lover   io   1m 


0,   LADY,   sing  that   song   again  ! 

For   never   did   the   listening   air 

Upon   its  lambent  bosom   bear 
So   wild,   so   soft,   so   sweet   a   strain! 
Like  rain-drops   on  the   thirsty   plant, 

It   falls   upon   the   thirsty   soul, 
Till  all   the   quivering  pulses   pant, 

And   through   the   heart  like   lava   roll 
Emotions,   surging,   free — 

Till  thought   and   feeling  spurn   control, 
And    lips   are   eloquent   of  thee ! 
If  there   be   shadowy   forms,   that  fly 

On  unseen   wings,   with   plumage   bright, 

In   realms   of  beauty   and   of  light, 
Beyond   the   scope   of  mortal   eye — 
If  there   be   voices   in   the   air 

That  gush   in   song,    or   thrill   in  speech, 
May    not   our   longing   spirits   hear 

The  lesson   that   they   teach  ? 


THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  LADY.  81 


0,   lady,   in   this   woodland   shade, 
Where   lovers   meet   to   whisper   o'er 
Vows   made   a   thousand   times   before, 

Though   sweet   as    when   the   first  were   made, 

Will   breathe   our  loves  in   passioned   phrase — 
We'll  tell  the   stars   our  tales  of  bliss ; 

They'll   smile   on   us    their  brightest  rays, 
And  they   will  be   our   witnesses. 

We'll  share  our  rapture   with   the   birds, 
That  twitter  joy    on   every   tree; 

In   songs   they'll   speak    the   fondest   words, 
That  I   would   speak  to   thee ! 


82  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


A    Sketch    from    3Rea(    Life. 


NOT  many  months  ago,  when  wo  lived  in  the  country,  a  man  in 
middle  life  came  to  our  door,  enquiring  if  we  could  direct  him  to 
the  house  of  the  "minister,"  remarking  that  he  had  lost  his  mother, 
and  as  this  place  used  to  be  her  home,  and  his  father  was  buried 
here,  he  had  come  to  lay  her  beside  him. 

Our  heart  rose  in  sympathy,  and  we  said,  "  You  have  met  with  a 
great  loss. " 

"  Well — yes, "  replied  the  strong  man,  with  hesitancy,  "  a  mother 
Is  a  great  loss  in  general ;  but  our  mother  has  outlived  her  use 
fulness  ;  she  was  in  her  second  childhood  and  her  mind  was  grown 
as  weak  as  her  body,  so  that  she  was  no  comfort  to  herself  and  was 
a  burden  to  everybody.  There  were  seven  of  us,  sons  and  daugh 
ters;  and  as  we  could  not  find  anybody  who  was  willing  to  board 
her,  we  agreed  to  keep  her  among  us  a  year  about.  But  I've  had 
more  than  my  share  of  her,  for  she  was  too  feeble  to  be  moved 
when  my  time  was  out ;  and  that  was  more  than  three  months 
before  her  death.  But  then,  she  was  a  good  mother  in  her  day, 
and  toiled  very  hard  to  bring  us  all  up. " 


A    SKETCH     FKu.M     HEAL    LIKE.  83 


"She  was  a  good  mother  in  her  day,  and  toiled  hard  to  bring  us 
all  up — she  was  no  comfort  to  herself,  and  a  burden  to  everybody 
else ! "  These  cruel,  heartless  words  rang  in  our  ears  as  we  saw 
the  coffin  borne  up  the  street.  The  bell  tolled  long  and  loud,  until 
its  iron  tongue  had  chronicled  the  years  of  the  toil-worn  mother. 
One — two — three — four — five.  How  clearly  and  almost  merrily  each 
stroke  told  of  her  once  peaceful  slumber  on  her  mothers  bosom,  and 
of  her  seat  at  nightfall  on  her  weary  lather's  knees.  Six — seven — 
eight — nine — ten— rang  out  the  tale  of  her  sports  upon  the  green 
sward,  in  the  meadow,  and  by  the  brook.  Eleven — twelve — thir 
teen — fourteen — fifteen — spoke  more  gravely  of  school  days,  and  little 
household  joys  and  cares.  Sixteen — seventeen — eighteen, — sounded 
out  the  enraptured  visions  of  maidenhood,  and  the  dream  of  early 
love.  Nineteen  brought  before  us  the  happy  bride.  Twenty  spoke 
of  the  young  mother  whose  heart  was  full  to  bursting  with  the 
new,  strong  love  which  God  had  awakened  in  her  bosom.  And 
then  stroke  after  stroke  told  of  her  early  womanhood — of  the  love, 
and  cares,  and  hopes,  and  fears,  and  toils,  through  which  she  passed 
during  these  long  years — till  fifty  rang  out  harsh  and  loud.  From 
that  to  sixty  each  stroke  told  of  the  warm-hearted  mother  and 
grandmother,  living  over  again  her  own  joys  and  sorrows  in  those 
of  her  children  and  children's  children.  Every  family  of  all  the 
group  wanted  grandmother  then,  and  the  only  strife  was,  "who 
should  secure  the  prize ;  but  hark !  the  bell  tolls  on  ?  Seventy — 
seventy-one — two — three — four.  She  begins  to  grow  feeble,  requires 
some  care,  is  not  always  patient  or  satisfied ;  she  goes  from  one 
child's  house  to  another,  so  that  no  one  place  seems  like  home. 
She  murmurs  in  plaintive  tones,  and  after  all  her  toil  and  wea 
riness,  it  is  hard  she  cannot  be  allowed  a  home  to  die  in ;  that  she 
must  bo  sent,  rather  than  invited  from  house  to  house.  Eighty — 
eighty -one — two — three — four — ah!  she  is  now  a  second  child — now 
"she  has  outlived  her  usefulness,  she  has  now  ceased  to  bo  a  com 
fort  to  herself  or  anybody ; "  that  is,  she  has  ceased  to  be  profitable 
to  her  earth-craving  and  money-grasping  children. 

Now  sounds  out,  reverberating  through  our  lovely  forest,  and 
echoing  back  from  our  "  hill  of  the  dead,  "  eighty-nine !  there  she 


84  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


now  lies  in  the  coffin,  cold  and  still — she  makes  no  trouble  now, 
demands  no  love,  no  soft  words,  no  tender  little  offices.  A  look  of 
patient  endurance?  we  fancied  also  an  expression  of  grief  for  unre 
quited  love,  sat  on  her  marble  features.  Her  children  were  there, 
clad  in  weeds  of  woe,  and  in  an  irony  we  remember  the  strong 
man's  words,  "  She  was  a  good  mother  in  her  day ! " 

When  the  bell  ceased  tolling,  the  strange  minister  rose  in  the 
pulpit.  His  form  was  very  erect,  and  his  voice  strong,  but  his 
hair  was  silvery  white.  He  read  several  passages  of  Scripture 
expressive  of  God's  compassion  to  feeble  man,  and  especially  of  his 
tenderness  when  grey  hairs  are  on  him,  and  his  strength  faileth. 
He  then  made  some  touching  remarks  on  human  frailty  and  of 
dependence  on  God,  urging  all  present  to  make  their  peace  with 
their  Maker  when  in  health,  that  they  might  claim  his  promises, 
when  heart  and  flesh  should  fail  them.  "  Then, "  he  said,  "  the 
eternal  God  shall  be  thy  refuge,  and  beneath  thee  shall  be  the  ever 
lasting  arms. "  Leaning  over  the  desk,  and  gazing  intently  on  the 
coffined  form  before  him,  he  said,  reverently,  "from  a  little  child  I 
have  honored  the  aged;  but  never  till  grey  hairs  covered  my  own 
head,  did  I  know  truly  how  much  love  and  sympathy  this  class 
have  a  right  to  demand  of  th^ir  fellow-creatures.  Our  mother,  "  he 
added  most  tenderly,  "  who  now  lies  in  death  before  us,  was  a 
stranger  to  me,  as  are  all  these  her  descendants.  All  I  know  of 
her  is  what  her  son  told  me  to-day — that  she  was  brought  to  this 
town  sixty-nine  years  ago,  a  happy  bride — that  here  she  has  passed 
most  of  her  life,  toiling  as  only  mothers  have  strength  to  toil, 
until  she  had  reared  a  large  family  of  sons  and  daughters — that 
she  left  her  home  here,  clad  in  the  weeds  of  widowhood,  to  dwell 
among  her  children  ;  and  that,  till  health  and  vigour  left  her,  she 
lived  for  you,  her  descendants.  You,  who  together  have  shared  her 
love  and.  her  care,  know  how  well  you  have  requited  her.  God  for 
bid  that  conscience  should  accuse  any  of  you  of  ingratitude  or  mur 
muring  on  account  of  the  care  she  has  been  to  you  of  late.  When 
you  go  back  to  your  homes,  be  careful  of  your  words  and  your 
example  before  your  own  children,  for  the  fruit  of  your  own  doing 
you  will  surely  reap  from  them  when  you  yourselves  totter  on  the 


A    SKETCH    FROM    REAL    LIFE.  85 


brink  of  the  grave.  I  entreat  you  as  a  friend,  as  one  who  has 
himself  '  entered  the  evening  of  life, '  that  you  may  never  say,  in 
the  presence  of  your  families  nor  of  heaven,  '  Our  mother  has 
outlived  her  usefulness — she  was  a  burden  to  us.' "  Never,  never  ! 
a  mother  cannot  live  so  long  as  that !  No ;  when  she  can  no  longer 
labour  for  her  children,  nor  yet  care  for  herself,  she  can  fall  like 
a  precious  weight  on  their  bosoms,  and  call  forth  by  her  helpless 
ness  all  the  noble,  generous  feelings  of  their  natures. 

Adieu,  then,  poor,  toil-worn  mother;  there  are  no  more  sleepless 
nights,  no  more  days  of  pain  for  thee.  Undying  vigour  and  ever 
lasting  usefulness  are  part  of  the  inheritance  of  the  redeemed. 
Feeble  as  thou  wert  on  earth,  thou  wilt  be  no  burden  on  the 
bosom  of  Infinite  Love,  but  there  shalt  thou  find  thy  longed-for 
rest,  and  receive  glorious  sympathy  from  Jesus  and  his  ransomed 
fold. 


86  POEMS     AND    SKETCHES. 


oman  & 


IT  must  bo  a  grief  to  every  true  woman,  that  in  whatever 
assemblage  she  may  chance  to  be — from  a  dinner  with  the  literati, 
down  to  a  social  evening  party — the  term  "WOMAN'S  EIGHTS"  is 
no  sooner  uttered,  than  straightway,  like  a  bolt  of  iron,  it  strikes 
upon  the  timid  ears  of  the  other  sex,  turning  the  sweetest  smile 
of  the  mustachoed  lip  into  the  most  ferocious  curl  imaginable ; 
giving  to  the  most  amiable  countenance  an  expression  of  derision, 
which  says,  as  clearly  as  words  can  speak  it,  that  woman  has  no 
"rights "at  all,  except  those  which  freakish  man,  in  his  various 
humors,  may  concede  her. 

Now,  dear  gentleman  reader,  this  is  not  policy.  If  you  wish  to 
keep  your  wife  free  from  the  mania,  appear  to  her  perfectly  indif 
ferent  in  regard  to  it.  Allow  her  to  do  and  say  what  she  may 
please,  without  opposition.  Let  her  think  for  herself!  This  at 
least  is  woman's  right.  If  you  differ  with  her,  let  it  be  by  reason 
ing,  as  with  your  equal.  Eeceive  her  opinions  with  the  same 
deference  you  would  if  she  were  a  man.  Do  not  think  that  because 
'tis  a  woman  who  speaks,  there  can  be  no  weight  in  her  words. 
Do  not  suppose  that  by  listening  to  her  arguments,  you  lose  dig 
nity,  tor  that  she  gains  ascendancy  over  you.  Far  from  it.  Any 
true  woman  will  be  all  the  more  true  and  womanly,  if  she  be 
treated  as  a  rational,  reasoning  being. 


WOMAN'S    BIGHTS.  87 


Consult  her  upon  important  things.  Discuss  with  her  the  great 
public  movements.  No  matter  if  they  bo  political.  Woman  should 
understand  politics.  Give  her  the  papers  to  read.  If  she  have  not 
time  to  read  them,  on  account  of  a  "  little  baby,"  or  a  little  sewing, 
or  any  other  little  cares,  read  them  to  her,  not  forgeting  even  the 
underhand  trickeries  of  politicians  I  The  more  she  knows  of  their 
intricate  windings,  the  more  fondly  she  will  cling  to  her  own  sphere, 
blessing  her  stars  that  she  is  not  a  politician. 

"Tis  yet  almost  an  universal  creed,  that  woman  need  not  meddle 
with,  or  understand  great  matters.  It  is  a  great  wrong  to  her.  It 
leads  to  rebellion.  We  believe  that  many  a  woman,  now  discontented 
with  her  destiny,  and  determined  to  fight  her  way  on,  through  "  law  " 
and  politics — throwing  off  her  dependence  and  delicacy  at  the  same 
time,  and  standing  forth  for  "  Woman's  Eights," — has  been  driven 
little  by  little  to  that  extremity,  by  the  petty  grievances  of  the  course 
of  treatment  she  has  received  in  this  particular. 

Women  should  understand  matters  outside  the  nursery  and  domes 
tic  circle.  She  pines  for  something  beyond  her  own  little  limits,  to 
dwell  upon  in  her  hours  alone,  when  shut  in  from  the  great  world — 
something  to  keep  the  mind  vigorous,  and  the  thoughts  active.  Why 
should  she  not  be  grasping  and  aspiring,  as  well  as  man?  Why 
should  she  not  thirst  for  a  knowledge  of  human  events?  Give  her 
knowledge,  give  her  education  !  Let  her  range  in  the  fields  of  litera 
ture,  of  science !  Let  her  dive  into  the  study  of  human  nature  I  Let 
her  explore  the  depths  of  mind  I  The  jewels  she  may  bring  you  may 
bo  priceless. 

That  we  are  more  ignorant  than  we  need  be  we  must  confess.  We 
do  not  inform  ourselves  as  we  might.  Yet  even  the  folly  of  our  own 
remissness,  we  can  trace  somewhat  to  man.  For  example : — A  gentle 
man  calls  on  a  lady.  They  pass  the  compliments  of  the  day ;  they 
discuss  with  animation  the  pleasures  and  annoyances  of  the  last  season 
at  the  Springs,  hint  at  the  oddities  of  the  last  fashion,  look  over  the 
engravings  and  sketches,  read  or  quote  a  little  poetry,— and  the  visit 
is  over.  The  lady  thinks  she  did  wonders  in  entertaining  her  guest ; 


88  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


and  the  gentleman  thinks  he  must  have  been  a  very  agreeable  visitor. 
They  were  both  right,  doubtless.  They  have  entertained,  but  not 
benefitted  each  other.  The  gentleman  would  laugh  at  the  absurdity 
of  introducing  any  subject  of  importance ;  of  course,  he  takes  for 
granted  it  would  embarras  her ;  and  thus  he  treats  her  nearly  as  if  he 
considered  her  his  inferior.  The  lady  naturally  enough  sees  the  safety 
of  ignorance.  She  knows  she  will  not  be  expected  to  speak  upon  any 
topic  beyond  the  school-girl  catalogue.  Therefore,  her  only  induce 
ment  to  labor  is  her  natural  thirst  for  information.  With  others,  one 
severe  mortification,  such  as  that  of  finding  themselves  in  the  middle 
of  a  conversation  for  which  they  are  unfitted,  would  awaken  their 
sluggish  energies  far  more  speedily. 

Throw  upon  woman  the  responsibility  of  thinking  and  speaking 
for  herself,  according  to  her  abilities  and  advantages.  She  will  not 
only  be  happier,  and  far  more  useful,  but  she  will  be  a  companion  for 
the  intelligent  and  intellectual  man,  in  his  hours  of  research  and 
investigation ;  while  now,  she  is  companionable  only  in  hours  of 
leisure  and  diversion. 

Few  women  think  for  themselves.  Speak  to  them  of  any  event  in 
the  political  world,  and  see  if  they  do  not  tell  you  that  "  husband 
thinks  this,  and  says  that."  And  see  if,  in  a  conversation  of  ten 
minutes,  however  round  about  it  may  be,  you  do  not  come  to  the  one 
momentous  fact — that  they  have  not  one  thought  drawn  from  their 
own  abundant  mines  of  intellect,  but  have  simply  adopted  their 
husband's  opinions. 

Now  this  is  all  beautiful  enough,  and  surely  it  is  a  good  way  to 
get  over  present  difficulties.  Yet  it  is  not  right.  It  gives  to  man  that 
superiority  that  nature  did  not  give  him.  It  renders  woman  helpless 
and  weak,  where  nature  made  her  strong.  The  man  studies,  reads 
and  soars,  while  the  woman  looks  after  the  household,  the  fashions, 
and — grovels.  Her  intelligence  does  not  increase  with  years,  and  con 
sequently,  she  finds  herself  at  last  but  a  very  simple  old  lady  ;  while 
her  husband's  mind  is  stored  with  the -gems  he  has  picked  np  by  the 
wayside,  all  to  himself,  being  blinded  by  the  foolish  belief  that  they 
were  beyond  the  sphere  and  comprehension  of  woman.  Shame, 


WOMAN'S    EIGHTS.  89 


shame  to  that  old  man !  Lot  him  sit  in  silcnco  for  long  hours, 
because  the  partner  of  his  life  cannot  meet  him  in  pleasant  and  intel 
ligent  converse.  She  has  no  stores,  no  chambers  filled  with  rich 
treasures  of  intellect.  No  cultivated  tastes,  no  flowers  of  imagination, 
to  strew  along  the  "down  hill  of  life."  She  must  grovel  on  to  the 
end.  The  "  mistake  of  a  life-time  "  is  seen  but  too  late ! 

[  Wo  cannot  endorse  this  article.  There  is  something  so  horrible 
to  us  in  the  mere  words,  "  Woman's  rights,"  that  we  shudder  at  the 
sound.  What !  throw  aside  our  dependence  on  "  lordly  man," — cease 
to  be  his  Pet  1  or  by  our  own  acts  deprive  ourselves  of  any  portion  of 
his  tender  regard  ?  O,  no,  no,  no !  decidedly  not !  Let  those  who 
wish  live  for  ambition,  we  confess  a  gentler  sentiment  is  the  charm 
which  sweetens  our  existence.  Nor  do  we  think  that  a  knowledge  of 
"politics,"  or  any  other  "men"  matters,  can  in  any  manner  enlarge 
the  female  intellect.  We  have  in  our  library,  books  sufficient  to 
employ  our  leisure  time  in  study,  till  the  hair  shall  have  become  white 
with  age,  and  not  one  treats  of  "  politics,"  but  pleasant,  amusing, 
intellectual  works,  from  authors  of  true  merit,  and  the  reading  and 
study  of  which  cannot  fail  to  flll  the  mind  brim  full  of  useful  informa 
tion,  and  render  the  "  ignorant "  female  not  only  capable  to  entertain 
agreeably,  the  man  of  "knowledge,"  but  perhaps  teach  even  him!  We 
confess  we  were  somewhat  surprised  that  Miss  DUCKWORTH  should 
write  such  an  article,  as  wo  remember  her  a  mild,  quiet  creature,  and 
far  from  "strong-minded."  Perhaps  experience  has  changed  her  sen 
timents.  If  so,  may  we  over  remain  "  sixteen  and  simple." — Nilly.'] 


0 


90  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


A    Mother's    Tears. 


HISTOBT  records  no  more  suggestive  incident  than  the  memorable 
termination  of  the  siege  of  Kome  by  Coriolanus.  No  child  ever 
perused  the  narative  without  extraordinary  emotion.  There  is  some 
thing  in  it  which  appeals  with  an  effect  that  may  not  be  resisted, 
to  the  heart  and  consciousness  of  all.  Who  has  not  in  imagination 
dwelt  upon  the  scene  ?  A  stout  and  sturdy  warrior,  steeled  by  years 
of  active  military  service  against  the  pitiful  appeals  of  suffering 
humanity — the  victim  of  fierce  and  ungovernable  passions — smarting 
under  a  keen  sense  of  accumulated  wrong — consecrates  the  energies  of 
his  life  to  the  avenging  of  his  injury,  and,  exiled  from  the  city 
whose  annals  his  military  prowess  had  adorned,  sallies  forth,  the 
infuriated  minister  of  wrath.  Sacrificing  all  higher  and  more 
ennobling  aspirations — sullying  for  ever  the  hard-earned  laurels  of 
the  victor  of  Corioli — he  seeks,  even  at  the  price  of  a  traitor's  fame, 
to  purchase  a  satisfying  vengeance.  Rallying  round  him  an  army 
of  the  enemy  he  had  prostrated  for  her,  he  throws  himself  with  an 
exulting  legion  upon  the  offending  city,  and  thunders  at  her  gates. 
Appalled  and  prostrated  at  the  realization  of  her  seemingly 


A    MOTHER'S    TBARS.  91 


inevitable  doom,  Rome  trembles  before  him.  With  humbled  pride 
her  haughty  senators,  in  solemn  procession,  come  to  sue  for  mercy. 
Disdainfully  repulsed,  they  despatch  the  minister*  of  their  religion 
to  woo  with  the  hopes  of  bliss,  and  intimidate  with  the  prospect  of 
a  coming  retribution.  But  all  in  vain.  Unrelenting  and  unmoved 
by  every  appeal,  the  stern  veteran  relaxes  not  his  purpose.  Then 
come  the  mother's  tears  !  Bending  under  the  weight  of  years,  sus 
tained  only  by  a  holy  hope,  the  aged  matron  sallies  forth.  Who 
can  paint  the  scene?  Who  may  realize  the  meeting?  In  the  most 
insensate  soul  there  are  treasured  associations  and  memories,  which 
forgotten  amid  the  wild  tumult  of  angry  passion  awaken  at  the 
whisper  of  a  mother's  name,  to  beat  in  every  pulsation  of  the  heart, 
and  thrill  throagh  every  fiber  of  the  frame.  There  is  a  sentiment 
of  holy  veneration  in  the  soul  of  the  child  to  its  mother,  which  he 
must  sound  the  lowest  depths  of  infamy  who  may  forget  o/  disre 
gard.  With  streaming  eyes  and  anguished  heart,  the  Roman  mother 
kneels  to  plead  with  her  traitor  son.  Appealing  to  him  by  all  the 
hallowed  memories  of  his  uncorrupted  boyhood,  and  chiding  with 
the  affectionate  rebuke  and  tenderness  that  well  up  from  a  mother's 
soul  towards  an  erring  child,  she  conjures  him  to  relinquish  his 
cherished  purpose.  The  warrior  is  unmanned.  "  Talk  not  of  grief 
till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men. "  Fearful,  but  of  brief 
duration,  is  the  struggle  of  contending  emotions.  Instinct  tri 
umphs — the  cup  of  vengeance  is  dashed  untasted  from  the  lips. 
Rome  is  safo  again.  A  mother's  tears  have  changed  the  destiny  of 
the  world  ! 


92  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


Marmfess 


A  CUBIOTJS  idea  prevails  pretty  generally  that  it  is  not  altogether 
right  for  people  to  indulge  in  a  little  quiet  gossip  about  the  charac 
ter,  the  actions,  or  even  the  business  of  their  acquaintances  or 
neighbors,  as  though  we  were  not  all  fully  entitled  to  enjoy  the 
right  of  free  speech !  The  monstrosity  of  such  an  idea  is  so  great 
as  to  exite  contempt,  so  strong  that  language  cannot  be  found  to 
express  the  virtuous  indignation  that  swells  so  many  bosoms.  A 
pretty  idea,  truly !  And  yet  it  is  a  singular  fact  that  such  an  idea 
has  always  prevailed ;  but  the  belief  has  not  been  of  any  great 
moment,  inasmuch  as  it  ia  so  rarely  reduced  to  practice.  Occa 
sionally  some  one  will  be  so  strangely  eccentric  as  even  to  rebuke 
the  indulgence  of  a  little  cosy  gossip  about  the  private  character 
and  affairs  of  people.  It  is  refreshing  to  know  that  such  rebukes 
do  not  have  a  lasting  effect,  and  generally  cause  a  further  unlim- 
bering  of  the  tongue,  as  a  practical  manifestation  of  the  most 
absolute  independence.  The  anti-gossip  theory  sounds  very  nice, 
but  the  idea  is  simply  preposterous  that  such  a  plan  could  be  prac 
tically  carried  into  effect.  Why  the  wheels  of  society  would  at 
once  be  "scotched;"  tea-parties  would  be  deprived  of  their  cream, 
club-rooms  of  their  soothing  tobacco,  women  would  sink  into  their 


HARMLESS     GOSSIP.  93 


family  circle,  and  men  would  find  themselves  forced  to  bo  content 
to  spend  their  evenings  at  home.  Not  gossip,  indeed.  What  an 
absurdity  in  this  enlightened  and  independent  age. 

Mrs;  A.  appears  in  costly  garments ; — certainly  Mrs.  B.  has  a 
right  to  whisper  to  her  neighbour  that  she  is  ruinously  extravagant, 
and  that  her  husband  owes  for  them,  and  cannst  pay  his  debts, 
though  probably  she  only  surmises  such  to  be  the  fact.  Mrs.  C. 
gives  a  large  party ; — of  course,  Mrs.  D.  did  not  wish  to  be  invited, 
and  she  declaims  against  such  entertainments  from  a  sense  of  duly, 
and  not  because  she  was  neglected.  Mrs.  E.'s  husband  keeps  his 
carriage ; — and  certainly  Mrs.  F.  is  privileged  in  circulating  the  fact 
that  his  great-grandfather  worked  for  his  daily  bread.  Mrs.  I.  has 
moved  into  a  new  house,  thoughtless  of  the  fact  that  Mrs.  J.  is 
confiding  to  others  a  startling  narration  of  the  days  when  her  needle 
was  her  only  support.  Mrs.  K.  wears  that  old-fashioned  bonnet, 
which  Mrs.  L.  is  confident  is  caused  by  meanness.  Mrs.  M.  has 
got  that  cloak  which  Mrs.  N.  is  sure  her  grandmother  wore.  But 
Mrs.  0.  made  the  discovery  of  the  season ;  Mrs.  P.  and  her  hus 
band  quarrel  dreadfully — she  passed  their  house  and  heard  them — 
not  knowing  that  the  wife  was  in  the  best  of  humor  at  the  time, 
trying  to  get  a  favorite  look  from  her  husband.  But  wo  will  not 
continue  the  record  of  these  little  eccentricities  of  society ;  enough 
is  here  stated  for  illustration.  We  feel  bound  to  say  that  the  meu 
are  not  in  the  slightest  degree  exempt  from  the  peculiarities  of  our 
own  sex.  There  is  often  this  difference:  the  ready  words  of  men 
sometimes  directly  undermine  the  credit  of  neighbors,  and  weaken 
what  otherwise  would  stand  firm  and  weather  a  business  storm. 

Probably  there  are  those  who  would  consider  the  above  nothing 
better  than  slander  on  the  part  of  the  persons  indulging  in  such 
remarks.  They  are  mistaken ;  it  is  only  a  skeleton  of  ordinary 
gossip,  frequently  uttered  to  while  away  time,  and  not  always  with 
a  deliberate  intention  to  do  serious  injury  to  others;  and  any 
attempt  to  restrain  the  custom  might  bo  treated  as  an  infringement 
upon  the  "  manners  and  customs  "  of  society. 


94  POEMS      AND      SKETCHES. 


American   Youn$ 


THE  American  young  lady  is  of  a  species  peculiarly  unique. 
There  is  nothing  like  her.  In  all  civilized  nations,  young  ladies 
are  most  carefully  secluded,  watched  over,  and  deprived  in  a  measure 
of  personal  liberty.  The  Spanish  duenna,  is  a  character  known  in 
history ;  the  seclusion  of  an  English  school-girl  is  proverbial ;  while 
the  French  demoiselle  is  as  carefully  watched  as  her  sister  beyond 
the  Pyrenees.  Still  less,  finding  no  prototype  to  the  American  young 
lady  in  civilization,  can  we  compare  her  to  a  Hottentot,  or  a  savage 
of  any  kind ;  therefore  we  return  to  our  original  starting-point, 
and  pronounce  her  peculiar. 

She  is  like  necessity,  and  "  knows  no  law."  She  is  generally 
dutiful,  snd  obeys  her  parents  as  far  as  they  require,  but  they  do 
not  require  very  stringent  obedience.  On  her  return  home  from 
school,  she  has  her  own  ideas  on  the  subject  of  dress,  whether  she 
will  go  into  "  society,"  or  whether  she  will  be  quiet  and  studious 
at  home.  Mamma  suits  herself  to  either  humor.  Sometimes  mamma 
keeps  about,  and  has  an  eye  to  windward,  but  not  always.  She 
feels  a  great  respect  for  Jane's  own  sagacity  and  good  sense, 
perfect  confidence  in  her  prudence ;  and,  if  somewhat  out  of  society 
ways,  as  American  mammas  are  apt  to  be,  she  allows  her  precious 
treasure  to  go  to  the  Springs  with  a  friend ;  hears  complacently  of 


AMERICAN     YOUNG     LADIES.  95 


her  flirtation  with  young  Rapid ;  asks  her  when  she  gets  home  if 
she  is  "  engaged ; "  and  listens  vary  quietly  to  the  good  sense  and 
prudence  which  characterize  the  young  lady's  own  opinion  of  young 
Rapid's  fortune  and  expectations. 

In  the  Northern  States  of  America,  particularly  New  England, 
the  young  lady  has  the  mantle  of  many  Puritan  grandmothers 
hanging  about  her ;  her  face  wears  over  all  its  innate  coquetry,  a 
soft  veil  of  reserve ;  she  is  a  little  distant  and  prudish  ;  her  manners 
are  slightly  wanting  in  grace,  that  sweetest  grace  of  all,  affability; 
she  is  "  highly  intellectual,"  and  reads  Goethe,  and  has,  as  Hawthorne 
expresses  it,  "an  instinct  to  attend  lectures."  Above  all,  she  baa 
a  high  sense  of  duty,  so  long  and  so  rigidly  inculcated  by  her 
Puritan  surroundings,  that  it  has  almost  extinguished  her  natural 
instincts — did  not  nature  occasionally  assert  itself. 

If  the  Yankee  young  lady  have  a  fault,  it  is  in  being  too  good, 
too  learned,  and  too  faultless.  She  is  very  pretty — beautiful  when 
very  young.  There  are  no  complexions  which  compare  with  the 
delicate  blooms  of  the  American  sea-coast.  Perhaps  a  shadow 
more — what  shall  we  say — a  trifle  more  fullness  of  figure,  would  be 
an  improvement ;  a  little  relaxing  of  the  muscles,  a  less  stern  view 
of  life,  would  improve  the  New  England  lady.  When  she  gets  a 
little  advanced  in  life,  she  is  in  terrible  danger  of  growing  "strong- 
minded."  But  we  approach  the  shadowy  limits  of  our  subject — we 
were  speaking  of  young  ladies. 

As  wo  always  want  to  get  out  when  we  have  affixed  a  limit  to 
our  meditations,  we  are  irresistibly  compelled  to  contemplate  the 
New  England  young  lady  when  she  ceases  to  be  a  young  lady,  and 
barters  her  incomparable  independence  "for  a  name  and  for  a 
ring."  As  a  wife  she  is  perfect.  To  her,  her  husband  is  the  "  rose 
and  the  expectancy  of  the  \fair  estate,"  and  she  likes  to  have  him 
write  some  initial  of  honor  before  or  after  his  name.  LL.  D.  and 
D.  D.  fill  her  with  complacency.  All  her  ambition  is  for  him.  She 
is  quite  content  to  grow  pale  and  thin  under  her  many  domestic 
cares,  thinking  always  of  duty,  and  of  her  home  and  its  treasures. 


96  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


Our  New  England  young  lady  reads  very  good  books.  She  has 
a  horror  of  flashy  novels — she  knows  Shakspeare  well,  and  all  his 
glorious  company.  As  Charles  Lamb  delightfully  says  of  his  sister, 
"  she  has  browsed  at  will  upon  the  fair  and  wholesome  pasturage  of 
old  English  reading."  She  reads  history,  and  has  no  shabby 
amount  of  Science.  She  knows  Latin  better  than  French,  although 
she  has  read  the  classics  of  the  latter  tongue.  Accomplishments  of 
the  lighter  character  are  not  much  cultivated.  She  prefers  hearing 
one  of  Kalph  Waldo  Emerson's  lectures  read  aloud,  to  the  music  of 
the  most  bewitching  waltz — not  that  she  does  not  like  a  dance  now 
and  then — but  all  her  profound  emotions  and  sympathies  are  of  the 
aesthetic.  She  likes  whatever  is  obscure  and  dreamy;  is  profoundly 
metaphysical  in  mind,  while  remarkably  straightforward  in  prac 
tice.  She  is  the  flower  of  the  Northern  tree,  which,  though  torn 
up  and  planted  anew,  has  not  changed  its  growth,  but  perhaps 
modified  its  development. 

The  American  young  lady  is  a  sad  flirt.  She  is  somewhat 
inconstant  in  love,  and  considers  herself  doing  a  small  business  when 
only  engaged  to  three  men  at  once.  However,  the  fortunate  man 
who  at  length  carries  off  the  prize,  finds  generally  that  his  bride 
settles  down  into  an  excellent  wife  and  mother,  discharging  with 
great  propriety  the  onerous  duties  of  domestic  life. 

Let  us  imagine  the  horror  of  an  English,  a  French,  or  a  Spanish 
mamma,  if  it  should  bo  proposed  to  them  that  Lady  Geraldine,  the 
fair  Matilda,  and  the  dark -eyed  Inez,  should  go  travelling  about  the 
country  alone  1  —  take  young  men  to  parties,  dance  with  whom  they 
please,  conduct  their  own  matrimonial  arrangements,  and  enjoy 
nearly  the  liberty  which  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  elderly  and  married. 
The  English  mamma  would  quietly  retire  to  her  inmost  closet,  and 
thank  heaven  she  is  not  an  American;  the  French  mamma  would 
shrug  her  shoulders  very  significantly;  and  the  Spanish  lady  would 
double-lock  her  daughter's  room,  and  substitute  an  uglier  and  more 
severe  duenna  than  ever.  And  yet  no  ladies  command  more  uni 
versal  respect — none,  we  believe,  deserve  it  more — than  the  ladies  of 
America. 


AMERICAN     YOCNG      LADIES.  97 


Let  us  contemplate  for  a  moment  that  agreeable  hybrid,  the 
New  York  Lady.  She  is  the  embodiment  of  style ;  she  shows  what 
can  be  done  for  the  raw  material  by  cultivation.  We  doubt  if  a 
Spanish  woman  walks  better,  if  a  French  woman  dresses  better,  if 
an  English  woman  can  show  more  accomplishments,  than  the  best 
trained  and  most  successful  specimen  of  a  New  York  young  lady. 
Every  nation  contributes  to  her  inany-sided  education.  Germany 
goes  over  to  teach  her  the  piano ;  Italy  tries  to  make  her  sing ; 
France  succeeds  in  making  her  dance  and  speak  French.  The  world 
is  drained  to  furnish  her  wardrobe.  No  Cleopatra  dissolves  her 
pearls  more  recklessly ;  no  more  luxurious  creature  treads  the  earth 
than  she.  But  does  she  think  much?  Wo  are  far  from  condemning 
luxuries  and  amusements;  they  come  from  the  same  wise  Hand 
which  dispenses  sorrows  and  deprivations ;  but  it  sometimes  seems 
to  us,  that  they  divert  the  mind  from  its  true  ends  and  aims. 

The  American  women  are  peculiarly  the  help-mates  of  the  men  ; 
they  receive  a  proud  homage  in  the  universal  respect  which  awaits 
them.  There  is  in  the  heart  of  man,  a  voice  which  calls  loudly  for 
perfection  in  woman.  Did  no  aspirations  within  herself  teach  it, 
this  should  lead  liar  upward  and  onward.  But  a  still,  small  voice 
within  her  own  heart  whispers  perpetually,  the  greatness  of  her 
destiny.  She  feels  that  she  should  be — 

"So  mild,  so  merciful,  so  strong,  so  good, 
So  patient,  peaceful,  loyal,  loving,  pure," 

that  man  can  turn  to  her  from  the  degenerate  world,  and  find  some 
•uggefttion  of  that  better  world  which  is  lo  come. 


98  POEMS     AND    SKETCHES. 


The    Christian    Merchant. 


During  a  late  visit  to  the  North  of  Scotland,  we  went  one  day 
into  a  village  shop  to  make  Borne  purchases.  Although  a  large  and 
flourishing  establishment,  it  had  nothing  remarkable  to  distinguish 
it  from  other  shops  in  the  village.  It  contained  the  usual  compli 
ment  of  dry  goods,  groceries,  and  farming  utensils,  with  a  large 
display  of  white  crockery,  rolls  of  carpeting,  gay  colored  oil  cloth, 
and  a  variety  of  brooaas  and  brushes  of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  Far 
mers  and  their  wives  were  engaged  in  trading,  and  one  young 
housekeeper  seemed  to  be  purchasing  a  new  carpet  for  her  parlour. 
All,  both  sellers  and  buyers,  seemed  intent  on  securing  a  profitable 
bargain.  As  we  stood  looking  upon  the  scene,  and  thinking  how 
little  the  apparent  difference  between  the-  Christian  and  the  world 
ling  in  the  ordinary  business  transactions  of  life,  and  wondering 
whether  it  must  be  so,  a  bright  spot  revealed  itself  to  our  eye.  A 
little  girl  entered  and  made  a  trifling  purchase,  and  as  she  was 
leaving,  the  store-keeper  reached  down  from  a  pile  of  newspapers, 
before  unperceived,  a  "  Child's  Paper, "  and  handed  it  to  her.  We 
then  noticed  that  on  one  small  shelf,  such  an  one  as  is  often  used 
for  the  display  of  ribbons,  there  was  a  row  of  little  Testaments,  and 
if  we  remember  right,  some  small  books  published  by  the  Tract 
Society;  and  on  a  shelf  beneath,  a  pile  of  "Child's  Papers."  "Do 


THE     CHRISTIAN     MEBCHANT.  99 


you  sell  those  papers  or  books  ?  "  we  inquired.  "  Oh,  no,  "  said  the 
merchant,  smiling,  "  I  buy  them  to  give  away.  The  children  are 
very  fond  of  reading  them,  and  sometimes  coma  in  troops  after 
them. "  We  said  no  more  on  the  subject,  for  we  had  heard  enough 
to  fill  our  thoughts.  Here,  in  the  midst  of  the  hurry  and  bristle  of 
business,  of  the  strife  after  gain,  and  anxious  asking  of  the 
question— "  What  shall  I  eat,  what  shall  I  drink,  and .,  wherewith- 
all  shall  I  be  clethed  ? "  shone  out  that  little  shelf,  with  its 
heavenly  influences,  reminding  each  child  and  even  grown  persons 
of  the  never-dying  soul,  and  of  the  immortal  mind,  whose  yearnings 
after  happiness  can  never  be  satisfied  with  the  vain  things  that 
perish  with  the  using.  A  halo  of  light  seemed  to  hover  over  the 
little  shelf  with  its  unpretending  contents,  which  far  outshone  the 
gay  shawls  and  materials  for  dresses  which  were  hanging  all  about 
in  the  most  conspicuous  manner.  Our  eye  ran  on  to  future  years, 
when  the  little  ones  who  received  from  the  Christian  merchant's 
hand  the  Book  of  Life,  or  the  paper  or  volume  filled  with  pious 
instructions,  shall  have  taken  our  place  upon  the  stage  of  actien ; 
when  the  valuable  stock  of  goods  which  now  seems  so  all-important, 
shall,  with  the  frail  bodies  of  the  owners,  be  turned  to  worthless 
dust.  Then  will  the  influence  of  that  "bread  upon  the  waters"  be 
seen  and  felt ;  the  lessons  of  religion,  virtue,  and  honesty,  incul 
cated  in  the  heart's  of  those  village  children,  by  the  means  of  the 
books  and  papers  here  given,  will  spring  up  in  a  harvest  of  glorious 
light  and  joy,  blessing  thousands  yet  unborn.  Yes,  all  this  may 
arise  from  the  contents  of  that  little  shelf,  now  unnoticed  amid  the 
display  of  worldly  vanities.  This  bright  spot  seemed  to  mark  that 
country  store  as  the  abode  of  religion,  as  a  place  dispensing  eternal 
light  and  life  with  true  missionary  zeal.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
Saviour  of  sinners  must  have  whispered  in  <hat  merchant's  ear,  as 
he  walked  the  great  thoroughfare  in  purchasing  his  stock  of  goods, 
"Lovest  thou  me?"  and  as  he  again  and  again  repeated  the  assur 
ance  of  his  love,  must  have  added,  "Feed  my  lambs." 

And  all  these  blessings,  which  we  foresee  with    the    eye   of  faith, 
will  arise  from  a  purchase  of  a  few   shillings'   worth   of  books   and 


100  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 


papers ;  a  small  sum,  which  many  a  country  merchant,  professing 
godliness,  -will  spend  in  sight-seeing  and  unnecessary  pleasures  of 
the  table  in  ths  course  of  a  few  days'  sojourn  in  the  city.  Why 
cannot  such  pious  merchants  have  a  bright  spot  among  the  shelves 
of  his  sale-room,  which  will  dispense  light  and  blessing  to  the  souls 
of  the  rising  generation  ?  Let  no  one  say,  "  I  am  poor :  let  the 
merchant  princes  whose  fame  fills  the  land,  sustain  the  benevolent 
objects  of  the  day.  "  Few  are  too  poor  to  give  up  one  small  shelf 
to  the  work  of  the  Lord.  If  each  merchant,  when  he  visits  the 
city,  would  set  the  seal  of  godliness  on  his  new  invoice  of  goods, 
and  invoke  divine  blessing  on  his  gain,  by  adding  a  few  shillings1 
•worth  of  tracts  and  "  Child's  Papers  "  to  his  other  purchases,  what 
missionaries  might  they  become !  They  would  spread  the  news  of 
salvation  from  north  to  south,  and  from  east  to  west,  and  hasten  on 
the  kingdom  of  Jesus  Christ.  Ttus  may  they  be  "  diligent  in  busi 
ness,  fervent  in  spirit,  serving  the  Lord,  "  and  in  the  end  receive 
the  plaudit,  "Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant." 


IMMOBTALITY.  101 


i. 

WHEN  fondest  hopes,  long  cherished  in  the  heart, 
Are  found  deceptive — when  disease  invades 
The  peaceful,  happy  home,  and  budding  youth 
Is  nipped  in  all  its  loveliness — when  clouds 
Are  gathering  thick  and  dark  around  the  soul — 
0,  then  how  precious  the  consoling  thought 
That  there's  a  world  where  no  corroding  cares, 
Xo  withering  blasts  of  sorrow,  no  mistrust, 
No  disappointments  come — where  harmony 
And  love  for  ever  reign ! 

II. 

0 !  tell  me  not 

That  this  short,  fleeting  span  of  life  is  all 
Of  man's  existence, — that  the  Christian's  hope 
Of  immortality  beyond  the  grave 
Is  but  a  baseless  dream — that  death  must  close 
The  eye,  to  gaze  no  more  upon  the  forms 
Of  those  beloved  on  earth — to  roam  no  more 


102  POEMS     AND     SKETCHES. 

O'er  Nature's  boundless  glories — that  his  touch 
Must  stop  the  ear  for  ever  to  the  words 
Of  sympathy  and  lore — that  his  strong  arm 
Can  stay  the  onward  progress  of  the  mind. 
Say,  can  it  be  that  intellectual  powers, 
Ordained  to  soar  from  world  to  world  afar, 
To  trace  the  comet's  mystic  course,  and  weigh 
The  planetary  orbs — were  formed  for  less 
Than  endless  being  ?  Can  the  mind,  whose  sway 
The  lightning  owns— whose  mandates  to  fullfil 
The  spark  electric  speeds, — can  faculties, 
Allied  to  the  angelic,  be  designed 
For  such  a  transient  exercise  as  that 
Of  three  score-years  and  ten  ? 

III. 

Thought  most  absurd ! 
A  higher  destiny  awaits  the  soul. 
When  death  shall  free  it  from  the  clogs  of  earth, 
Its  true  existence  shall  have  but  begun. 
Eternal  life!  how  fail  our  loftiest  powers 
To  grasp  its  import.     But,  though  mortal  eye 
Hath  never  seen,  nor  mortal  organ  heard, 
Nor  heart  of  man  conceive,  the  things  reserved 
For  those  who  choose  in  time  the  way  of  truth ; 
Enough  we  know  to  animate  desire — 
To  kindle  earnest  longings  to  depart, 
And  be  with  Christ,  our  Saviour,  and  our  all. 


STANZAS.  103 


Stanzas. 


FEOH   every   twinkling   star, 

That  shines   when   day   is   done, 

There   gazes   fondly,    gently   down 
Some  dear  departed  one. 

How   sweet  their  homes   on  higi, 
Where  no  fond   ties   are  riven — 

Where   fires   of  love   are   gently   fanned 
By  the  soft  breath  of  heaven ! 

No   pang,  no   conflict  there, 

No  tear  in  sorrow's  eye; 
No  cloud  of  woe  may  ever  dim 

The  azure  of  the  sky. 


104  POEMS      AND     SKETCHES. 

How  sweet  they  passed  away, 
Those   cherished   ones   of  old ; 

Faith  lent  its   light   to   guide   their   way 
Up  to  the  heavenly  fold  I 

So,   when   our  mission's   o'er, 

And  grief  and  trial  past, 
On  wings   of  faith   our   souls   shall   mount, 

Still   trusting   to   the   last! 

Then   shall   our   souls  be   free 
From   life's   relentless   storms; 

And  round   us   evermore   shall   be 
The   everlasting  arms ! 


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